ACRES  C 
14C  PAClr:. 


• 


THE    DAUGHTER   OF   A   STOIC 


THE 


DAUGHTER  OF  A  STOIC 


BY 

CORNELIA   ATWOOD    PRATT 


MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

LONDON:   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1896 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
BY  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


NottoooU 
J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  STOIC 

I 

WHEN  Marion  James  had  drunk  from 
the  cup  of  life  her  full  portion  of  poverty 
and  illness  and  anguish  of  spirit,  she  died, 
leaving  to  the  half-brother  with  whom  she 
had  quarrelled  on  her  marriage  the  doubt 
fully  desirable  legacy  of  her  little  daughter. 

She  wrote  him  on  her  death-bed  a 
letter  which  was  chiefly  remarkable  for 
the  things  it  did  not  say.  He  had  not 
heard  from  her  for  twelve  years. 

"  Dear  Roger,"  the  letter  ran,  "  I  am 
ill,  and  the  doctors  tell  me  that  I  shall 
not  recover.  Will  you  look  after  Arria? 
She  is  self-willed ;  there  is  no  reason  to 


2212577 


2  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

suppose  that  she  will  reward  your  care 
with  any  more  consideration  than  I 
showed.  But  if,  for  the  sake  of  the 
family,  you  will  see  that  she  gets  a 
modern  education  which  will  fit  her  to 
earn  her  own  living  in  a  few  years,  it 
will  be  a  merciful  thing  to  do,  and  in 
time  she  may  even  be  able  to  repay 
you.  I  am  leaving  her  a  little  more 
than  enough  to  clothe  her."  Here  the 
writing  wavered  and  grew  faint.  The 
signature  was  barely  legible. 

"  I  should  think  Marion  would  have 
wished  to  say  more  to  me  after  being 
silent  for  so  many  years,"  complained 
Major  Roger  Woolsey. 

"  Perhaps  she  did  not  have  the  strength," 
suggested  his  wife  gently.  "  She  was  a 
dying  woman.  This  was  her  last  effort." 

The  Major  stretched  out  his  hands  to 
the  fire,  and  his  long  upper  lip  trembled. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  3 

His  small  eyes  and  purplish  face  showed 
a  convulsive  agitation. 

"  My  only  sister,  Elizabeth,  my  only 
sister,"  he  said  in  his  expansive  after- 
dinner  voice. 

Mrs.  Woolsey  came  and  stood  by  her 
husband's  chair,  dropping  a  light,  caress 
ing  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  Beside  his 
portly,  somewhat  shapeless  bulk,  her  slight 
figure  seemed  even  more  delicate  and  girl 
ish  in  outline  than  its  wont.  With  her 
translucent  skin,  pink  cheeks  and  early 
whitened  hair  she  was  still  very  pretty  — 
the  figure  of  a  gentlewoman  in  Dresden 
ware. 

"  But  she  left  you  the  child,  Roger." 

"  Naturally.  There  was  no  one  else  to 
leave  it  to." 

"  We  will  do  our  best  to  give  her  the 
sort  of  training  that  your  sister  would 
have  wished." 


4  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  She  will  want  the  Higher  Education 
—  college  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  said 
the  Major  ruefully.  The  Major  was  not 
in  sympathy  with  the  ideals  of  the  modern 
woman,  and  winced  at  the  thought  of 
having  a  possible  exponent  of  them  in 
the  family. 

"  Oh !  "  said  his  wife  dubiously.  "  But 
I  am  sure  the  way  in  which  I  was  brought 
up  is  the  better,  the  more  lady-like,  way 
to  educate  a  girl." 

"  It  is  not  so  financially  advantageous 
if  she  is  to  be  a  worker.  The  bloom  on 
the  grape  has  no  market  value." 

"  I  do  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Woolsey,  with 
an  accession  of  energy,  "  that  Florence 
will  not  grow  up  strong-minded  and 
have  erroneous  views  about  things.  It 
would  be  such  grief  to  me.  Perhaps  it 
is  just  as  well  that  Arria  is  four  or  five 
years  younger  than  Florence.  Otherwise 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  5 

it  would  seem  natural  to  educate  them 
together.  But  these  new  ideas  seem  to 
me  so  mistaken,  so  subversive  of  —  of 
everything.  I  could  never  consent  to 
train  Florence  in  that  way." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  Major  prompt 
ly.  "  I  trust  Florence  will  be  such  another 
woman  as  her  mother." 

Mrs.  Woolsey  looked  down  at  the  top 
of  her  husband's  head  —  which  was  bare, 
polished,  and  pinkish  —  with  an  adoring 
smile.  It  was  the  same  smile  that  had 
fascinated  him  when  she  was  twenty, 
and  its  potency  was  still  immense. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  very  sorry,"  she 
said  regretfully,  "for  the  women  of  to 
day.  They  are  bartering  their  birthright 
for  a  mess  of  pottage,  and  they  do  not 
know  what  they  have  lost.  They  seem 
indifferent  to  the  finer,  more  imaginative 
aspects  of  their  position  in  the  world. 


6  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Comradeship  pleases  them  as  well  as 
courtesy.  I  hate  to  think  the  old  ideas 
are  dying  out." 

The  word  courtesy  reminded  the  Major 
tardily  that  his  wife  was  standing.  He 
rose  with  a  palpable  effort,  and  ponder 
ously  wheeled  forward  another  chair  to 
the  fire.  Then  he  lifted  her  fragile 
blue-veined  hand  to  his  yellow-white 
moustache. 

"  The  old  ideas,  please  God,"  he  said, 
"  will  never  die  out  so  long  as  there  is 
left  on  earth  a  man's  breast  fit  to  harbour 
them ! " 


II 

AT  twenty-two  Arria  James  had  an 
interesting  face,  a  level  head,  and  con 
fidence  in  the  universe.  Also,  and  not 
unjustly,  a  certain  degree  of  confidence 
in  Arria  James. 

I  say  an  interesting  face,  because  that 
was  the  first  impression  which  it  gave 
you.  Only  when  her  features  were  in 
repose  did  you  perceive  that  they  were 
finely  cut,  and  that  their  harmony  pro 
duced  the  satisfying  effect  men  call 
beauty.  For  the  rest,  her  eyes  were 
blue,  with  long  black  lashes  that  matched 
her  irrepressibly  wavy  hair.  Her  smile, 
which  might  almost  be  catalogued  as  a 
feature,  broke  the  tinted  roundness  of 
7 


8  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

her  cheeks  with  dimples,  yet  was  not 
merry.  It  had  both  fixidity  and  subtle 
ness,  and  came  and  went  with  the  tide 
of  her  thought,  quite  unrelated  to  any 
external  excitation  to  mirth.  It  had  been 
compared  to  the  smile  of  the  Mona  Lisa; 
one  of  her  professors  had  also  called  it 
Assyrian.  However  one  regarded  it,  its 
charm  was  undeniable. 

When  she  emerged  from  her  college 
for  the  last  time,  her  uncle's  family  still 
lingered  in  Washington,  where  they  had 
spent  the  spring,  and  Arria  went  forth 
with  to  Rosehedges,  the  family  home  near 
Skanseewan,  to  await  their  coming.  After 
their  arrival  there  was  to  be  a  family 
council.  She  was  to  tell  them  what  she 
wanted  to  do  with  her  life,  and  her 
future  plans  were  to  be  discussed. 

Fresh  from  four  years  of  perfectly  in 
dependent  existence,  she  chafed  a  little 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  9 

at  the  necessity  of  submitting  her  projects 
to  any  one,  but  as  the  obligation  was 
chiefly  one  of  courtesy,  it  bound  her 
with  a  double  chain.  In  the  meanwhile, 
she  found  Rosehedges  very  delightful. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  she  said  to  Rod 
erick  Kirke  when  he  came  over  from 
the  next  place  with  his  invalid  mother's 
compliments  and  request  to  know  if  she 
could  do  anything  to  make  Miss  James's 
period  of  waiting  less  tedious.  "  There 
is  nothing.  The  servants  have  made  me 
perfectly  comfortable,  and  I  have  enjoyed 
these  three  days  immensely.  I  expect 
the  family  to-morrow,  and  I  almost  re 
gret  it.  I  have  been  having  such  a 
delicious,  solitary  time.  Of  course  I  am 
anxious  to  see  them,"  she  hesitated 
a  second  before  going  on  — "  especially 
Florence.  It  is  really  six  years  since  I 
have  seen  anything  of  her.  She  was 


io  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

abroad  so  long,  you  know.  I  hear  she 
is  very  brilliant  and  beautiful." 

The  young  man  smiled  with  a  satisfied 
air  which  suggested  that  the  words  were, 
in  some  sort,  a  tribute  to  himself. 

"  She  is  almost  too  brilliant  to  be 
popular,"  he  observed.  "  A  man  said  to 
me  once,  '  Miss  Woolsey  is  too  clever  to 
be  real.  I  always  feel  as  if  she  were  a 
wonderful  talking  doll,  not  flesh  and 
blood  at  all.'  " 

Arria  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely. 

"  He  must  have  been  a  stupid  man," 
she  said  with  conviction,  "for  in  the  first 
place  there  can't  be  too  much  clever 
ness,  and  in  the  second,  I  can't  imagine 
Florence  as  being  anything  but  graciously 
human." 

Mr.   Kirke  smiled  to  himself  again. 

"  Then  you  like  Rosehedges  ? "  he  re 
marked,  with  a  total  lack  of  relevance. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  1 1 

They  were  on  the  western  verandah, 
which  looked  out  across  the  lawn  and 
over  the  tips  of  the  shrubbery  climbing 
up  the  bluff,  to  the  broad,  shining  river, 
silver  in  the  June  sun.  The  pink  mists 
of  morning  had  hardly  faded  from  the 
nearer  hills  across  the  river.  Still  beyond 
and  northward,  the  Catskills  were  blue 
in  the  distance. 

"  There  is  so  much  beauty  here  that 
it  possesses  me  entirely.  I  forget  that 
there  are  such  things  as  tenement-houses 
and  sweaters'  shops  and  squalid  city 
streets  and  maltreated  children.  It  makes 
vice  seem  impossible  and  virtue  wholly 
inadequate,"  said  Arria  slowly,  striving 
to  put  her  impression  into  words.  "  It 
makes  life  seem  more  dignified,  more  of 
an  opportunity,  than  any  other  prospect 
I  ever  saw.  I  have  not  spent  a  summer 
here  for  several  years,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 


12  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

ought  to  acquire  '  manners  of  the  sky ' 
if  I  am  to  remain.  One  of  my  friends 
once  wrote  me  from  Switzerland  that 
she  had  seen  '  beauty  enough  to  make 
an  angel  weep  he  had  to  stay  in  heaven.' 
This  view  seems  to  me  like  that." 

"  There  are  those,  you  know,"  sug 
gested  Mr.  Kirke,  with  a  strictly  imper 
sonal  manner,  "  who  think  it  would  take 
more  than  that  to  reconcile  a  mortal  to 
remaining  on  earth." 

Arria  hesitated.  The  one  conversa 
tional  temptation  she  found  it  difficult 
to  resist  was  the  taking  of  a  short  cut 
from  light  to  serious  talk. 

"  Pessimism  like  that  is  so  unintelli 
gent,  so  stupid,"  she  now  said  eagerly. 
"Surely  that  is  not  your  own  view?" 

"  You  know  Punch's  answer  to  '  Is 
life  worth  living  ?'"  he  began  languidly. 

Miss    James     nodded.      Her     red     lip 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  13 

curled  scornfully.  Was  this  his  idea  of 
intelligent  conversation  ? 

"Well,  I  don't  agree  with  it.  It  de 
pends  upon  the  mind.  Given  a  keen 
intelligence,  and  everything,  even  suffer 
ing  or  sorrow,  is  worth  while,  because 
through  it  all  one  has  the  sense  of 
being  on  the  track  of  hidden  things,  of 
coming  close  to  the  secrets  of  creation." 

Arria's  eyes  sparkled.  She  wished  she 
had  said  that  herself. 

The  man  rose.  June  mornings  are 
warm  for  abstract  conversation,  even 
when  one  is  talking  to  a  very  pretty 
girl. 

"  By  the  way,  Miss  James,  I  nearly 
forgot  one-half  my  errand.  My  mother 
would  be  very  glad  if,  since  she  is  un 
able  to  come  to  you,  you  would  come 
in  quite  informally  some  morning  to  see 
her.  She  knew  your  mother  very  well, 


14  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

and  is  anxious  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  her  daughter." 

As  he  took  himself  off  across  the 
lawn,  Arria  watched  him  with  eyes  of 
approval. 

"  He  has  a  nice  soul ! "  she  said  joy 
ously.  "  And  he  is  going  to  marry 
Florence.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  never  expected  to  find  Florence 
engaged  to  a  man  with  a  soul!'" 

Such  are  the  limitations  of  twenty-two 
years  that  it  did  not  occur  to  Arria  this 
was  not  an  adequate  characterization  of 
the  tall  young  man  with  the  soft,  indif 
ferent  voice,  keen  blue  eyes,  and  inter 
ested  manner.  Where  youth  can  idealize 
it  seldom  analyzes,  and  Roderick's  char 
acter  took  on  for  her  that  morning  a 
certain  luminous  indistinctness  —  which, 
when  you  think  of  it,  is  the  quality  a 
halo  has  —  that  it  never  afterwards  lost. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  15 

"Well,  Roderick,"  demanded  Mrs. 
Kirke  half  an  hour  later,  as  her  son 
wheeled  her  big  chair  carefully  along 
the  terrace,  "  and  what  is  Marion  Wool- 
sey's  little  girl  like?" 

"  Nice  girl,"  said  Roderick  concisely. 
"  Quite  our  sort.  You'll  like  her.  Very 
pretty,  with  attentive  Irish-blue  eyes,  and 
an  extraordinary  smile  that  comes  and 
goes  without,  so  to  speak,  paying  any 
attention  to  the  audience.  Very  keen 
after  ideas.  I  suspect  she  has  a  good 
many.  Not  very  good,  nor  very  new, 
probably.  Just  the  same  old  things, 
but  her  personal  zest  in  them  would 
give  life  to  theories  exploded  before  the 
flood." 

"  She's  not  at  all  Florence's  style  ?  " 

"  My  dear  mother !  Florence  and  I 
are  withered  flowers  in  comparison. 
She  is  young  and  fresh  in  spirit.  The 


1 6  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

innocent  blasphemy  of  her  years  is  at 
tractive.  She  looks  at  the  world  as  she 
might  look  into  a  shop  window  full  of 
spring  bonnets.  It  is  all  before  her 
where  to  choose.  And  her  verdict  still 
coincides  with  the  Creator's.  It  is  '  very 
good.'  There  is  nothing  in  this  life 
more  refreshing  to  jaded  people  like  our 
selves  than  just  her  type.  She  will  be 
none  the  less  delightful  from  the  fact 
that  she  will  occasionally  be  ludicrous, 
as  people  who  are  very  much  in  earnest 
often  are.  I  expect  to  enjoy  her  society 
immensely.  Decidedly,  she  is  our  sort." 


Ill 

ARRIA'S  ambitions  in  life  were  varied. 
She  intended  to  study  for  a  Ph.  D.  and 
become  a  learned  professor;  but  then 
she  also  wanted  to  see  something  of  a 
more  frivolous  society  than  usually  falls 
in  the  way  of  very,  very  learned  ladies, 
and  she  was  well  aware  that  of  these 
two  projects  the  first  was  the  one  which 
could  be  deferred  with  the  least  danger 
to  its  ultimate  realization. 

Accordingly,  after  arguing  the  subject 
with  the  Major  and  Mrs.  Woolsey  for 
two  hours,  she  consented  to  postpone 
her  further  studies  for  a  year  and  remain 
with  them. 

The  Major  called  her  to  his  side,  and 
kissed  her  with  much  solemnity, 
c  17 


1 8  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  Your  docility  gives  me  much  pleasure, 
my  child,"  he  said. 

"  Am  I  docile  ? "  asked  Arria,  with 
surprise.  "  I  was  afraid  I  had  seemed 
particularly  obstinate." 

"  Compared  with  your  mother  —  "  be 
gan  the  Major,  then  checked  himself, 
and  Mrs.  Woolsey  -filled  the  gap  with  a 
gentle  murmurous  expression  of  her  pleas 
ure  in  Arria's  acquiescence. 

The  years  of  Arria's  school-days  had 
not  greatly  altered  the  Major  and  Mrs. 
Woolsey.  She  was,  if  anything,  a  trifle 
more  fragile  and  fairy-like,  while  he  was 
perceptibly  more  ponderous ;  the  colour 
had  deepened  a  shade  in  his  face,  the 
skin  had  grown  flabbier,  the  cheeks 
more  pendulous. 

"  But  they  are  quite  the  same  people," 
thought  Arria,  as  she  went  to  her  room, 
having  said  good-night.  "  Quite  the  same," 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  19 

and  she  shivered  a  little.  To  think  that 
ten  whole  years  of  living  could  pass  over 
one's  head,  and  make  so  little  difference ! 
"  Oh  I  hope,"  thought  the  girl,  clasping 
her  hands,  "that  I  may  be  born  into  some 
new  appreciation  of  life,  at  least,  every 
two  years.  What  is  the  use  of  it  else?" 

In  her  own  room  she  found  Florence, 
in  a  picturesque  dressing-gown,  sitting 
by  the  eastern  window  in  the  faint 
moonlight,  waiting  for  her. 

Arria  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of 
pleased  surprise.  She  had  felt  herself  on 
trial  with  this  new  Florence,  who  at 
twenty-six  was  not  at  all  the  Florence 
she  had  known  at  twenty,  when  they 
last  spent  a  summer  together.  This  was 
the  first  token  that  the  probation  had 
ended  in  approval. 

"  This  is  dear  of  you,"  said  Arria 
warmly. 


2O  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  How  did  the  debate  end,  Arria  ? 
Are  you  going  to  stay  with  us  ? " 

The  younger  girl  drew  a  hassock 
toward  the  window  and  sat  down  at  her 
cousin's  feet,  leaning  her  head  against 
the  window  frame,  her  eyes  on  Florence's 
face. 

"  It  was  not  a  fair  fight.  I  was  on 
the  other  side  all  the  while.  I  want  to 
stay  very  much,  but  it  seems  to  me  I 
should  be  about  my  business  in  life." 

"  Your  business  in  life  is  to  have  a 
good  time,"  said  her  cousin  promptly. 

"  I  admit  that,"  said  Arria,  with  an  un 
expected  intensity.  "  That  is  my  own 
theory  exactly,  but  I  have  some  other 
things  to  do,  too.  My  mother  trusted 
me  to  become  self-supporting,  and  repay 
Uncle  Roger  for  my  education,  and  that 
is  one  of  the  things  I  must  see  to,  you 
know." 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  21 

Florence  scrutinized  the  charming 
girlish  face  upturned  to  hers  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  very 
pretty  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  certain  ex 
citement  of  manner. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  answered 
Arria.  "  You  will  like  better  having  me 
about.  But  I  am  not  a  circumstance 
compared  to  you." 

In  fact,  Florence  was  attractive,  not 
with  an  ordered,  classical  loveliness,  but 
with  the  beauty  belonging  to  whatever  is 
alert,  intense,  alive.  All  eyes  were  drawn 
to  her  in  her  presence  as  they  are  drawn 
toward  leaping  flame.  A  slender  figure,  a 
mass  of  red-brown  hair  waving  away  from 
a  white  forehead,  great  red-brown  eyes 
with  exquisitely  pencilled  brows,  an  al 
most  colourless  skin,  and  fine-cut  scarlet 
lips  were  some  of  the  physical  details  of 


22  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

a  personality  whose  whole  effect  was 
delicately  dazzling,  so  vivid  was  the  im 
pression  it  conveyed  of  life  and  interest. 
The  lines  of  her  mouth  seemed  to  say 
that  her  interest  was  dashed  now  and 
again  by  cynicism.  She  looked,  perhaps, 
not  too  old,  but  too  experienced  for  her 
twenty-six  years. 

"  Oh,  I  am  pass'ee"  said  Florence  care 
lessly.  "  What  did  you  mean  just  now, 
Arria,  about  a  good  time  being  your 
theory  too  ? " 

Arria  hesitated.  "  It's  rather  a  long 
story,"  she  said  slowly.  "  It  involves 
so  much  of  my  life.  Are  you  sure  it 
wouldn't  bore  you  ?  I  should  hate  to 
bore  you  the  first  evening  you  came  in 
to  see  me  like  this.  You  might  never 
come  again." 

Florence  laughed  and  settled  herself 
more  comfortably  to  listen.  "  I  never 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  23 

permit  myself  to  be  bored,"  she  said, 
"  and  you  have  been  uncommonly  enter 
taining  up  to  this  time.  As  they  say  of 
novels,  the  interest  is  well  sustained. 
Now  go  on." 

"  I  prefer  to  tell  you.  It  is  a  question 
of  one  of  my  working  principles,  and  if 
it  should  ever  lead  me,  as  it  might,  to 
do  strange  or  selfish  things,  I  would 
rather  you  knew  beforehand  why  I  did 
them.  You  would  be  less  shocked.  Do 
you  know  very  much  about  my  mother  ? " 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

"She  was  a  saint  and  a  martyr.  You 
know  she  had  only  a  very  little  money 
of  her  own,  about  the  five  hundred  a 
year  that  I  have  now.  The  fortune  came 
from  Uncle  Roger's  mother  and  reverted 
to  him  when  our  grandfather  died.  And 
mamma  quarrelled  with  Uncle  Roger 
when  she  married  —  I  believe  he  did  not 


24  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

approve  of  my  father  and  wanted  her  to 
marry  some  one  else  —  and  so,  though  he 
tried  to  give  her  an  income,  she  would 
not  have  it,  but  went  off  and  never  wrote 
to  him.  And  she  and  my  father  were 
wretchedly  poor.  Papa  was  ill  almost 
always,  and  he  ought  to  have  gone  South, 
and  there  was  no  money  to  send  him, 
and  I  was  a  cross  baby  and  kept  him 
awake  at  night,  and  they  got  into  debt, 
and  —  oh,  everything!  They  had  almost 
all  the  miseries  that  people  can  have. 
But  my  mother  always  said  that  it  was 
no  matter  —  that  she  did  not  mind.  What 
she  meant  was  that  she  loved  my  father 
so  much  that  nothing  hurt  —  not  illness, 
nor  poverty,  nor  cross  babies,  nor  even 
seeing  him  suffer,  so  long  as  he  was 
alive  and  they  were  together.  And  she 
has  told  me  he  felt  in  the  same  way. 
But  I  hardly  believe  that.  I  have  noticed 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  25 

that  men  always  think  things  hurt,  even 
very  little  things.  I  don't  think  they  can 
bear  as  much  as  we  can. 

"  She  began  to  train  me  to  bear  things 
very  early.  She  was  afraid  for  me,  afraid 
that  I  might  not  be  strong  and  brave 
enough  to  live  my  life.  Since  I  have 
grown  older,  I  have  learned  to  measure 
her  own  suffering  by  the  fear  she  felt 
for  me.  I  never  saw  her  cry  but  once. 
It  was  just  before  my  father  died,  and  I 
was  seven  years  old,  but  I  remember 
perfectly  how  she  sat  with  me  in  her 
arms  beside  his  bed  talking  about  my 
future.  '  You  are  going,  and  I  shall  go 
too,'  I  heard  her  say.  '  She  must  stand 
on  her  own  feet.  And  who  knows  what 
unkind  things  the  years  will  do  to  her? 
She  must  be  strong.  I  must  make  her 
strong.  O  my  baby,  my  baby ! '  and 
then  she  broke  down,  and  I  slipped 


26  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

away  from  her  and  crept  miserably  off 
into  a  corner,  trying  to  think  what  it 
could  mean. 

"  So  my  training  began  early.  If  pre 
cepts  could  make  a  philosopher,  I  should 
have  been  a  Stoic  from  my  cradle.  She 
had  named  me  for  the  Roman  Arria,  and 
as  soon  as  I  was  old  enough  —  not  to 
understand,  but  to  be  impressed  —  she 
told  me  the  story  —  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  I  have  forgotten,"  her 
cousin  interrupted. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?  She  was  the 
wife  of  a  noble,  who,  being  condemned 
to  death,  had  the  right  of  his  class  to 
execute  the  sentence  with  his  own  hand. 
But  he  had  not  the  courage  until,  visit 
ing  him  in  his  cell  one  day,  his  wife 
plunged  a  dagger  into  her  own  heart,  and 
drawing  it  out  handed  it  to  him  with 
a  smile,  saying  only,  '  It  does  not  hurt.' 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  27 

"  My  mother  tried  to  teach  me  to  say 
that  of  all  my  woes.  When  I  grew  a 
little  older,  she  taught  me  Marcus  Aure- 
lius.  I  have  a  writing-case  she  gave 
me  the  year  before  she  died,  with  the 
sentences  she  quoted  oftenest  and  was 
fondest  of  written  upon  the  back  of  the 
blotter  leaf.  See  here,"  and  rising,  Arria 
made  a  light  and  took  a  quaintly  em 
broidered  little  case  from  her  table.  Flor 
ence  bent  over  it  eagerly.  In  a  bold, 
clear  hand,  blurred  here  and  there  as 
though  at  some  time  tears  had  been 
shed  upon  it,  were  written  the  cheerless 
precepts  the  mother  had  chosen  for  her 
child. 

"  Everything  is  fruit  to  me  which  thy 
seasons  bring,  O  Nature  /  " 

"  Nothing  happens  to  a  man  which  he 
is  not  fitted  by  nature  to  bear? 

"  //  is  a  shame  for  the  soul  to  be  first 


28  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

to  give  way  in  this  life  when  the  body 
does  not  give  way" 

"Unhappy  am  I  because  this  has  hap 
pened  to  me?  Not  so,  but  happy  ant  /, 
though  this  has  happened  to  me  .  .  . 
neither  crushed  by  the  present  nor  fear 
ing  the  future? 

"  Let  it  make  no  difference  to  thee 
whether  thoii  art  cold  or  warm  if  thou 
art  doing  thy  duty ;  and  whether  thou 
art  drowsy  or  satisfied  with  sleep ;  and 
whether  ill-spoken  of  or  praised ;  and 
whether  dying  or  doing  something  else. 
For  it  is  one  of  the  acts  of  life,  this  act 
by  which  we  die ;  it  is  sufficient  then  in 
this  act  also  to  do  well  what  we  have  in 
hand? 

Arria  took  the  little  case  and  replaced 
it,  turned  out  the  glaring  gas-jet,  and  came 
to  sit  down  again  at  her  cousin's  feet. 

"  She  died  that  way- — as  she  had  tried 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  29 

to  live.  But,  child  as  I  was,  I  was  not 
deceived.  Her  stoicism  was  unreal.  It 
was  only  a  form  of  endurance,  something 
that  helped  her  to  be  silent.  Even  I 
could  see  that  after  my  father's  death 
life  was  a  long  agony  to  her,  and  not 
even  the  thought  of  leaving  me  could 
make  the  end  unwelcome. 

"  Of  course  I  revolted  from  her  teach 
ing.  It  seemed  to  me  very  early  that 
the  way  to  be  comfortable  was  not  to 
say  of  bruises  that  they  did  not  hurt, 
but  to  get  no  bruises.  I  thought  I  knew 
what  I  wanted  then.  I  am  sure  I  do 
now.  I  mean  to  be  comfortable.  I  in 
tend  to  enjoy.  I  will  not  be  poor  and 
miserable.  I  am  not  going  to  let  life 
hurt  me  as  it  hurt  her.  In  short,"  said 
Arria,  with  a  sudden  change  to  a  lighter 
manner,  "I  propose  to  have  a  good  time. 
Of  course,  I  hope  my  ideas  of  what 


30  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

makes  a  good  time  are  not  cheap  nor 
common." 

Florence  smiled  down  at  her  with  an 
expression  Arria  did  not  comprehend. 

"  How  young  you  are!"  she  sighed  half 
regretfully.  "  How  do  you  suppose  you 
are  going  to  escape  the  common  lot? 
What  would  you  do  if  love  called  you 
where  unhappiness  was  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  go.  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  love.  But  I  do  not  imagine 
it  can  be  as  —  as  strong  as  I  am,"  said 
the  girl  fearlessly,  although  there  was 
something  in  the  strenuousness  of  the 
other's  tone  which  filled  her  with  a  vao;ue 

O 

discomfort.  The  accent  of  the  great  pas 
sions  was  as  unfamiliar  to  Arria's  ear  as 
their  grip  to  her  heart,  but  the  proximity 
of  a  commanding  emotion  is  quick  to 
make  itself  felt. 

Miss  Woolsey  clasped  her  small  hands 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  31 

meditatively  about  her  knees  and  then 
unclasped  them. 

"  To  say  '  college  '  is  evidently  quite 
the  same  thing  as  saying  '  cloister,' "  she 
observed.  "  The  one  obviously  affords 
no  more  advantages  than  the  other  for 
seeing  the  world.  Seeing  the  world,  my 
dear, — for  a  woman,  —  means  making  the 
acquaintance  of  Man." 

Arria  was  silent  an  instant.  She  was 
quite  sure  Florence  was  brilliant,  but 
for  the  moment  she  doubted  her  good 
taste. 

"  I  find  a  great  many  other  things 
worth  studying,"  she  declared  with  seri 
ousness. 

"  You  are  delightful,"  averred  Miss 
Woolsey.  "  It  must  be  that  you  are  a 
type.  How  wide-awake  you  are  men 
tally,  and  how  totally  undeveloped  emo 
tionally  !  The  creed  you  declare  is  a 


32  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

man's  creed,  not  a  woman's.  No  woman 
was  ever  consistently  selfish  enough  to 
live  up  to  it.  Wait  until  you  begin  to 
feel  things.  You  probably  regard  feel 
ings  now  as  pretty  toys,  inferior  to  ideas, 
but  still  interesting.  You  have  no  con 
ception  of  what  it  is  to  feel." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Arria  coldly,  her  suspicions  of  bad  taste 
confirmed.  "  I  feel  things  now." 

Her  cousin  laughed. 

"Feeling,  my  dear,  —  again  for  a 
woman,  —  means  only  one  thing.  I  refer 
to  the  emotional  capabilities  whose  activ 
ity  makes  us  the  wives  and  mothers  of 
the  race.  Don't  begin  to  feel  before 
you  must.  You  are  as  refreshing  as  a 
glass  of  spring-water  now." 

Arria  rose  and  leaned  against  the 
window-frame,  looking  down  at  her 
cousin. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  33 

"  Is  feeling  the  miracle  that  changes 
the  water  into  wine  ? "  she  asked  gravely. 

Florence  sprang  up  and  kissed  her 
with  a  laugh.  "  That  is  exactly  it ! 
Good-night." 

"  Florence !  You  think  my  creed  is 
impracticable  for  a  woman.  What  is 
yours  ?  " 

Miss  Woolsey,  trailing  the  silk  and 
lace  of  her  negligee  across  the  room, 
hesitated.  She  often  received  confi 
dences,  yet  seldom  gave.  But  just  now 
she  was  stirred  by  their  talk,  which  had 
interested  her,  and  she  yielded  to  the 
wish  to  answer. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  not  tell 
you,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  proud  of 
it.  But,  like  yours,  it  requires  a  little 
preamble.  I  began  life  with  a  consider 
able  stock  of  credulities,  for  mamma  had 
tried  to  make  me  into  something  like 


34  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

herself.  I  adore  my  mother.  I  could 
worship  the  ground  she  walks  on.  She 
is  everything  that  is  sweet  and  simple 
and  good  and  charming.  But  you  sim 
ply  cannot  make  a  gentlewoman  of  the 
last  generation  out  of  a  nowadays  girl. 
There  is  something  in  the  air  that  pre 
vents  it.  I  console  myself  for  the  loss 
of  my  illusions  by  protecting  hers.  By 
the  way,  I  don't  want  her  to  hear  your 
creed.  I  suppose  I  have  grown  a  trifle 
cynical.  When  you  have  been  with  us 
a  year,  and  lived  my  life,  you  will  under 
stand  some  of  the  reasons. 

"  It  happened  after  I  had  experimented 
with  most  things  and  was  tired  of  them, 
that  I  came  to  know  well  a  high-souled 
Pagan  gentleman  who  —  who  satisfied 
me.  Because  he  was  tolerant  toward  all 
the  failings  of  humanity,  alike  to  those  he 
did  and  did  not  share,  men  called  him  a 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  35 

child  of  this  world,  and  because  he  was 
also  fine  and  loyal,  and  loved  life  bravely 
without  succumbing  to  it,  women  esteemed 
him  as  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels. 
And  I  was  one  of  the  women  who  thought 
him  so.  I  don't  know  why  it  seemed  to 
him  that  my  presence  in  his  life  would 
make  it  richer,  but  I  thank  the  gods 
hourly  that  he  did  think  so. 

"  And  so  to  my  disbeliefs  in  all  the 
things  earth  has  to  offer,  I  added  a  be 
lief  in  one  —  the  one  whose  strength  you 
doubt." 


IV 

"  WE  are  always  very  quiet  in  sum 
mer,"  said  Mrs.  Woolsey.  "  This  has 
never  been  a  gay  neighbourhood,  still 
we  have  some  very  pleasant  people 
hereabouts  whom  I  want  you  to  know 
as  soon  as  possible.  It  is  too  warm  for 
a  large  dinner,  but  the  moonlight  on  the 
terrace  is  so  divine  this  week  that  I  think 
I  must  ask  Roderick  and  Mr.  Sefton  and 
perhaps  the  Lawrences  to  dine  infor 
mally  with  us  some  evening  soon." 

"  Who  are  the  Lawrences  ?  "  asked 
Arria. 

"  Brother     and     sister.       A     perfectly 
harmless     pair.      Athletics     and     piety," 
denned  Florence  briefly. 
36 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  37 

"And  Mr.  Sefton?" 

"  A  self-made  man.  He  is  just  what 
a  new  man  ought  to  be,  fresh,  direct, 
and  powerful.  If  I  were  creating  men, 
they  should  be  like  that,  for  the  world's 
sake.  Personally  I  prefer  the  more 
effete  specimens.  They  are  more  amus 
ing  if  less  reliable.  But  Mr.  Sefton  is 
sometimes  amusing  too.  His  serious 
ness  edifies  me  as  much  as  most  men's 
levity.  He  is  like  you,  willing  to  talk 
about  the  Causes  of  Things  between 
the  acts  of  a  farce-comedy.  He  is  ab 
surdly  rich,  so  rich  that  if  we  did  not 
like  him,  we  should  say  it  was  vulgar  to 
have  so  much  money.  As  it  is,  we 
offer  him  suggestions  about  spending  it. 
He  bought  the  Ostrander  manor  after 
Petrus  Ostrander  and  his  wife  were 
divorced,  and  built  a  new  house  there, 
and  has  bored  himself  by  trying  to  live 


38  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

in  it  since.  It  is  rather  tiresome  to  be 
a  virtuous  multimillionaire." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  multi 
millionaires." 

"  They  are  a  good  deal  alike.  There 
are  only  a  few  things  that  are  expensive 
enough  for  them  to  do.  Almost  all  of 
them  want  a  big  house.  After  that 
they  may  have  a  fad  for  yachts,  or 
horses,  or  collecting  things,  or  all  three. 
Occasionally  they  go  in  for  philan 
thropy,  more  rarely  for  dissipation.  It 
isn't  often  that  the  man  who  has  the 
self-restraint  necessary  to  accumulate 
millions  has  also  the  abandon  needful 
for  squandering  them.  Mr.  Sefton  is 
working  out  his  aesthetic  salvation  just 
now.  He  collects  pictures,  and  very 
good  ones.  His  gallery  is  much  too 
fine  to  be  buried  in  a  country  neighbour 
hood.  He  has  excellent  specimens  of 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  39 

some  of  the  great  names.  One  of  his 
two  Corots  is  the  most  enchanting  I 
have  ever  seen.  It  is  small,  but  so 
beautiful ! " 

Arria  listened  with  parted  lips. 

"  Fancy  owning  a  Corot ! "  she  said. 
"  Money  is  exquisite.  One  can  do  such 
wonderful  things  with  it  that  I  think 
only  the  good  and  the  noble  and  the 
fine  ought  to  be  allowed  to  have  much." 

"  Providence  doesn't  agree  with  you, 
my  dear,"  returned  Florence.  "  He  fre 
quently  shows  what  he  thinks  of  it  by 
giving  it  to  quite  another  class.  But  Mr. 
Sefton  is  really  fine,  especially  if  you  care 
for  tremendous  things  like  Niagara  Falls, 
or  Walt  Whitman's  poetry,  or  the  can 
yons  of  the  Colorado.  Mamma  has  taken 
him  up  because  he  gives  her  the  sensa 
tion  of  energy.  It  is  a  nice  sensation 
-when  you  can  take  it  vicariously." 


4O  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  Florence  is  talking  nonsense,  dear, 
as  she  often  does,"  said  Mrs.  Woolsey. 
"  There  has  to  be  new  blood  in  society 
occasionally.  And  it  is  lonely  in  the 
country  if  one  does  not  like  one's  neigh 
bours.  Mr.  Sefton  may  be  a  little  heavy 
at  times,  but  he  is  a  man  whom  I  thor 
oughly  respect.  I  shall  invite  them  for 
Thursday." 

On  Thursday  evening  accordingly  Ar- 
ria  found  herself  placed  at  dinner  beside 
a  personage  whom  she  had  previously 
inspected  in  the  drawing-room  with  the 
frankest  interest. 

Mr.  Sefton  was  a  powerfully  built  man 
of  middle  size  and  middle  age.  He  was 
an  inconspicuous  person,  but  when  your 
eye  fell  upon  him  you  perceived  that 
his  very  quietude,  like  the  immobility  of 
Barye's  bronzes,  conveyed  an  intimation 
of  elemental  force.  His  hair  was  iron- 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  41 

gray.  His  keen  eyes  were  gray  too. 
The  lines  of  his  mouth  were  so  firm  it 
seemed  impossible  that  they  could  be 
moulded  of  such  facile  stuff  as  flesh 
and  blood. 

Arria  glanced  at  the  other  men  in 
critical  comparison.  It  had  long  seemed 
to  her  that  Major  Woolsey  was  too 
palpably  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood. 
The  thought  was  disloyal,  but  there  were 
certainly  hours  when  he  looked  distinctly 
earthy.  The  hour  of  dining  was  one  of 
these.  She  turned  toward  Kirke  with  a 
breath  of  relief.  There  are  people  who 
so  answer  to  our  vague  unformulated 
demands  that  before  we  know  we  have 
a  certain  ideal  we  find  that  they  fulfil  it. 
Looking  at  Roderick  Kirke,  it  seemed 
to  Arria  that  he  looked  as  a  man 
should. 

"  To    continue    what   we   were    saying, 


42  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Miss  James,"  began  Mr.  Sefton,  putting 
down  his  soup  spoon.  Arria  started 
and  dimpled  attentively.  She  had  just 
been  observing  to  herself  that  such  a 
totally  unconscious  air  of  distinction  as 
Roderick  possessed  was  not  so  fre 
quently  the  result'  of  inherited  good- 
breeding  and  position  as  of  a  good 
figure  and  a  philosophical  cast  of 
thought. 

Mr.  Sefton  was  fond  of  conversation. 
He  talked  with  the  unconscious  energy 
and  directness  of  a  man  who  has  ideas  of 
which  he  wishes  to  rid  himself. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  he  was  re 
marking,  "  in  saying  that  bad  taste  is  the 
natural  birthright  of  man.  I  believe  that 
most  of  us  know  and  love  a  good  thing 
when  we  see  it.  But  we  see  good  things 
so  seldom  that  we  do  not  know  that  we 
love  them.  There  must  be  a  kind  of 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  43 

acquired  familiarity  with  them  first.  The 
child  loves  its  parents  naturally,  but  it  is 
years  before  it  knows  that  it  loves,  and 
years  more  before  it  knows  what  love  is. 
I  admit  the  process  is  a  long  one.  I 
should  like  to  convince  the  good  people 
down  yonder  in  the  town  that  they  love 
beauty.  I  open  my  picture-gallery  to  them 
two  days  in  a  week.  It  is  the  most  con 
vincing  argument  I  have  at  hand.  What 
is  the  result  ?  A  travelling  circus  comes 
to  town  on  one  of  my  afternoons.  There 
are  three  thousand  people  at  the  circus 
and  not  one  in  my  gallery.  It  will  be  a 
long  day  —  more  than  my  life-time,  per 
haps  —  before  ten  per  cent  of  those  people 
will  prefer  the  pictures.  But  the  time  will 
come.  And  meantime  the  gallery  stays 
open." 

Arria  brightened  as  she  listened.     Here 
was    another   man  with  a  soul.     At    this 


44  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

rate  Rosehedges  would  soon  become 
Paradise ! 

"  But  that  gives  them  only  one  form  of 
beauty,"  she  suggested. 

"  Two.  Colour  and  line.  But  more  than 
that,  it  teaches  them  to  see.  What  we 
acquire  from  the  great  artists  is  more  than 
a  momentary  sensation  of  pleasure  in 
being  shown  a  given  scene  from  their  point 
of  view.  We  learn  from  them  their  way  of 
looking  at  things.  I  remember  that  after 
I  first  saw  a  collection  of  Rousseaus,  for 
weeks  I  saw  Rousseaus  in  nature  every 
where.  I  had  never  noticed  them  before. 
Now  I  can  never  overlook  them." 

"  A  great  man  might  be  defined  as  one 
who  can  make  clear  his  point  of  view," 
said  Arria.  "But,"  timidly,  "the  — the 
people  who  do  not  come  to  the  gallery, 
you  know,  the  ones  who  are  more  amused 
by  the  circus.  Do  you  suppose  it  would 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  45 

be  a  real  amelioration  of  life  to  them  if 
they  did  come  ?  " 

Mr.  Sefton's  brows  met  over  his  keen 
eyes.  She  had  touched  a  tender  point. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  rather  too  earnestly. 
"Why,  Miss  James,"  —  his  closed  hand 
touched  the  table  lightly, — "I  believe  it  is 
the  best  amelioration  of  life,  possibly  the 
only  real  one.  Our  favourite  American 
panacea  is  education  of  the  mind.  Look 
here,  does  such  education  make  people 
happier  ?  I  don't  believe  it  does.  In  so 
far  as  it  enables  a  man  to  improve  his 
material  condition  it  is  a  benefit  doubt 
less.  But  after  that  what  does  it  do  ?  It 
makes  for  restlessness,  for  discontent. 
Even  in  its  highest  phases  how  does  it 
work?  I  hear  you  are  a  graduate  of  a 
young  ladies'  college.  You  ought  to  be 
able  to  tell  me." 

"  One    of   our  professors    said    she  was 


46  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

going  to  write  a  tract  for  the  girls  entitled 
'  How  to  be  Happy,  though  Educated,' " 
said  Arria. 

"  Exactly !  Either  the  education  of  our 
young  people  is  so  superficial  that  it  does 
not  educate,  or  else  so  thorough  that  it 
brings  them  under  the  torturing  lash  of 
an  intellect  too  completely  awakened. 
Did  you  ever  notice  that  while  we  are 
all  after  new  ideas,  they  never  satisfy 
when  found  ?  We  are  impelled  to  push 
on  to  find  others,  to  be  as  little  satisfied 
by  them  in  turn.  I  tell  you  the  solution 
of  the  problem  of  happiness  is  not  more 
knowledge,  but  more  loveliness.  The 
answer  to  hideousness  is  beauty.  It  is 
the  only  thing  that  fills,  that  rests,  that 
satisfies.  Knowledge  cannot,  for  know 
ledge  is  only  relative.  Beauty  is  absolute. 
What  makes  the  charm  of  Europe  for  us 
restless  Americans  but  the  fact  that  those 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  47 

older  civilizations  have  learned  this  and 
embodied  it  in  the  monuments  they  left 
to  their  descendants  ?  Coming  to  a  new 
country,  we  were  cheated  of  our  proper 
heritage  of  beauty,  especially  in  the  archi 
tectural  line.  We  had  no  legacy  from  the 
past  to  educate  us  unconsciously  as  we 
walked  our  streets.  The  duty  of  the 
present,"  said  Mr.  Sefton,  checking  him 
self  as  if  just  aware  that  he  had  been  rid 
ing  his  hobby  violently,  "  is  to  create  such 
legacies  for  the  future.  That,  I  take  it, 
is  the  ultimate  use  of  a  rich  man  in  our 
country  —  if  there  is  any  use  for  him." 

"  Sefton  is  in  clover,"  said  Roderick 
Kirke  to  his  fiancee,  under  his  breath. 
"  Your  cousin  is  listening  to  him  with 
her  soul  in  her  eyes.  It  is  a  long  day 
since  he  has  expounded  his  art  ideas  to 
such  an  auditor." 

"  Yes,  they  are  nice  eyes,"  said  Florence. 


48  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  But  Arria  always  listens  as  if  she  had 
never  heard  human  speech  before.  It's 
a  flattering  habit  she  has." 

"  Once  there  was  country  life  in  Amer 
ica,  North  as  well  as  South,"  the  Major 
was  saying  explosively  at  his  end  of  the 
table.  "  My  father  and  grandfather  were 
content  to  live  right  here.  Rosehedges 
was  good  enough  for  them.  Why  not 
for  me  ?  Why  is  it  supposed  that  I  ought 
to  have  another  house  in  the  city  and 
rent  a  cottage  at  the  shore,  and  go  here 
in  summer  and  go  there  in  winter?  It 
is  all  demoralizing  nonsense,  sir,  all  non 
sense." 

"  It  is  the  advancement  of  the  women, 
papa,"  suggested  his  daughter  promptly. 
"  That  is  what  does  all  the  mischief,  you 
know.  Rosehedges  is  good  enough  for 
you,  but  not  for  mamma  and  me.  So 
we  travel  to  find  a  place  that  is." 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  49 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  was 
the  cause  of  the  international  marriage," 
said  Miss  Lawrence,  a  languid  little 
woman  with  a  sweet  voice,  "  that  effort 
of  the  American  girl  to  find  a  place 
good  enough  for  her.  I  wish  some  one 
would  collect  statistics  about  the  com 
parative  comfort  of  the  frying-pan  and 
the  fire.  There  is  Lady  Bertie  Brett, 
you  know,  whose  marriage  is  always 
cited  as  such  a  conspicuous  example  of 
the  thoroughly  successful  English-Amer 
ican  match.  Even  her  path  has  had  — 
perhaps  not  thorns,  but  certainly  little 
briars  in  it.  The  last  time  I  was  in 
London  I  saw  at  the  New  Gallery  such 
an  excellent  picture  of  her,  a  high-bred, 
spirited,  beautiful  head.  I  admired  it 
very  much,  but  while  I  still  lingered 
before  it  a  very  fat  old  lady  with  an  air 
of  consequence  came  rolling  by.  She 


50  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

fumbled  at  her  lorgnette  first,  then  fum 
bled  at  her  catalogue.  '  Oh ! '  I  heard 
her  remark  to  her  companion,  '  Lady 
Bertie  Brett !  I  thought  it  was  some 
one,  but  I  see  it  isn't ! ' 

"  What  a  pity  she  could  not  have 
heard  that  remark  herself ! "  said  Florence. 
"  Even  as  a  girl  her  glance  had  a  certain 
disintegrating  quality.  I  have  seen  very 
composed  people  go  to  pieces  before  it. 
It  might  have  disconcerted  even  a  Brit 
ish  matron." 

"Oh  no!"  murmured  Roderick  languidly. 
"  It  is  some  time  since  you  have  been  in 
London.  You  forget." 

"  What  I  have  heard  about  Lady 
Bertie  Brett,"  struck  in  Mr.  Lawrence, 
"was  that  she  is  good-hearted.  Me  II- 
vaine  tells  a  story  about  why  the  Bretts 
changed  their  hotel  when  they  were  in  St. 
Augustine  shortly  after  their  marriage. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  51 

Lady  Bertie  had  a  dressmaker  of  genius 
and  good  looks,  who  did  some  work  on 
her  trousseau,  and  shortly  after  was  mar 
ried  herself  to  a  Californian  of  some 
wealth  and  consequence,  and  she  and 
her  husband  turned  up  on  the  wedding 
tour  at  the  same  hotel  where  the  Bretts 
were  stopping.  Lady  Bertie  said  the 
frocks  she  wanted  to  wear  just  then  were 
precisely  the  ones  which  that  dressmaker 
had  done  for  her,  but  she  couldn't  help 
feeling  it  would  be  bad  taste  and  incon 
siderate  on  her  part  to  flaunt  them  be 
fore  the  happy  bride.  So  she  and  Lord 
Bertie  just  quietly  went  away  to  another 
hotel  for  the  rest  of  their  stay.  That, 
now,  is  what  I  call  consideration ! " 

At  the  end  of  the  dinner  coffee  was 
served  on  the  terrace.  The  men  did  not 
linger  long  in  the  dining-room.  When 
Roderick  came  out,  he  discovered  Arria 


52  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  She  was 
bending  over  a  rose-tree  white  with  blos 
soms,  and  it  seemed  in  the  moonlight 
that  her  lips  moved.  She  straightened 
herself  at  his  approach,  and  lifted  to  his 
a  brilliant,  excited  face.  They  had  be 
come  friends  and  allies  already.  He 
found  a  certain  champagne-like  zest, 
which  was  almost  intoxicating,  in  the 
froth  and  bubble  of  her  young  ideas. 
As  for  Arria,  although  she  felt  a  certain 
lofty  disapproval  of  a  young  man  who 
apparently  treated  his  profession  —  for 
Roderick  had  a  law  office  in  Skansee- 
wan  —  as  a  pastime,  and  his  pastimes  as 
professions,  she  had  nevertheless  discov 
ered  and  come  to  rely  upon  that  fund  of 
ready  sympathy,  that  generous  apprecia 
tion  of  every  one's  point  of  view,  which 
was  at  once  Roderick  Kirke's  weakness 
and  his  strength. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  53 

"  I  have  had  such  a  good  time ! "  she 
said.  "  Do  you  know,  I  believe  I  was 
very  near  a  prayer  just  now.  Why  should 
it  be  incongruous  to  return  thanks  for  a 
dinner-party  ?  I  was  very  much  inter 
ested  and  amused,  and  then  to  come  out 
into  this  heavenly  night  and  smell  the 
roses !  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  It 
turns  my  head." 

"  What  would  the  prayer  have  been  if 
you  had  reached  it?"  asked  Roderick  ap 
preciatively,  though  smothering  a  smile. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  girl  reflectively, 
"  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  '  Help 
me  to  do  justice  to  life.'  It  is  so  beauti 
ful—so  beautiful!" 


V 

"  MR.  SEFTON,  for  you,  miss,"  said  Mary, 
the  maid,  to  Arria. 

The  girl  started  up  impatiently.  It 
was  an  afternoon  in  late  July,  and  she 
was  sitting  under  the  big  elms  eastward 
of  the  house  with  Florence  and  Roderick 
Kirke,  and  enjoying  herself  extremely,  for 
Florence  had  been  ridding  her  mind  of 
a  large  number  of  perfectly  irresponsible 
ideas  about  life,  death,  and  marriage.  In 
the  six  summer  weeks  Arria  had  been  at 
Rosehedges  Mr.  Sefton's  calls  had  cer 
tainly  been  as  frequent  as  Roderick's 
own,  but  never  before  had  he  asked  for 
her  and  her  only.  She  thought  it  tire 
some  as  well  as  unusual  that  he  had 

54 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  55 

done  so  now,  and  planned  as  she  went, 
to  bring  him  out  of  doors  where  that  fas 
cinating  pair  were  lounging  under  the 
elms. 

Sefton  was  leaning  on  the  mantel  in 
the  shaded  drawing-room,  pulling  at  his 
gloves.  He  came  forward  quickly  as  she 
appeared  at  the  door,  a  slender  white 
figure  invading  the  green  gloom.  Her 
dress  was  covered  with  a  hundred  curly 
little  ruffles,  edged  with  lace,  and  they 
moved  ceaselessly  with  her  movements, 
as  the  rising  and  falling  spray  drifts 
about  a  rock.  She  had  never  looked 
more  remote,  more  unapproachable,  nor 
—  in  his  eyes  —  more  beautiful,  and  his 
heart  sank. 

He  took  her  offered  hand  in  an  im 
petuous,  close  clasp,  and  quite  forgot 
to  drop  it.  She  felt  that  his  own  hand 
trembled,  and  looked  up  quickly  to  as- 


56  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

certain  the  meaning  of  such  a  phenom 
enon.  His  eyes  met  hers  and  held  them 
in  a  gaze  she  could  not  fathom.  He 
spoke  without  preamble. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  deliberately,  "  I 
am  afraid  that  I  love  you." 

"  Why  afraid  ? "  she  said  hastily,  and 
immediately  recognized  that  she  could 
not  have  made  a  more  foolish  speech. 

"  Because  it  seems  most  unlikely  that 
you  can  care  for  me,"  he  answered  quietly, 
"  and  yet  —  I  shall  be  miserable  if  you 
cannot." 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  she  protested, 
then  perceived  hopelessly  that  this  also 
was  a  futile  observation.  She  withdrew 
her  hand  irresolutely,  wondering  why  he 
seemed  to  expect  to  keep  it. 

"  Could  you  possibly  imagine  intrusting 
your  life  to  my  keeping  ? "  he  begged. 

His   questions  were  singularly  difficult 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  57 

to  answer  in  an  unfavourable  way.  One 
can  imagine  so  many  things ! 

"  You  know  I  think  you  trustworthy. 
You  are  a  man  on  whom  one  relies.  .  . 
I  suppose  that  is  not  exactly  what  you 
want." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice 
that  moved  her  in  spite  of  herself,  "  to 
seem  anything  that  is  good  in  your  eyes. 
But  even  if  you  would,  I  should  be  sorry 
to  have  you  give  your  life  into  my  hands 
—  as  some  women  might  —  because  I 
could  care  for  it  fittingly." 

"  That  is  not  it  at  all,"  she  cried  with 
a  sudden  anger  that  restored  her  self- 
possession,  stepping  back  and  seating 
herself  as  she  spoke.  "  Money  of  course 
is  —  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  except  that 
we  all  want  it.  But  it  is  yourself  that 
gives  one  confidence,"  she  said,  with  head 
erect  and  eyes  alight  disdainfully. 


58  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  Arria,"  he  urged  eagerly,  "  I  know 
that  I  am  a  great  deal  older  than  you, 
and  that  there  is  no  reason  in  myself 
why  you  should  care  for  me.  You  know 
my  life,  but  you  cannot  possibly  imagine 
how  barren,  how  futile,  how  devoid  of 
everything  that  should  make  life  worth 
living,  it  has  seemed  to  me  since  I  met 
you.  When  I  went  to  my  own  house 
that  first  night,  it  turned  my  heart  sick 
as  I  drove  through  the  gates  and  saw 
it  looming  in  front  of  me,  big,  empty, 
dead.  And  I  said  to  myself,  'It  is  a 
beautiful  place ;  it  represents  a  part  of 
my  life's  work,  but  it  is  just  so  much 
stone  and  wood  and  mortar  wasted.  It 
is  not  a  home'  And  I  knew  almost 
at  once  what  it  needed  to  make  it  alive 
and  beautiful.  I  want  to  make  you 
see  it  as  I  do.  Do  you  understand, 
Arria  —  dearest  —  sweetest?  I  love  you 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  59 

—  and  I  want  you  to  help  me  make  a 
home." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  his  face,  his  strong, 
furrowed  face,  working  with  an  emotion 
which  she  found  incomprehensible. 

"  I  do  not  love  any  one,"  she  said  re 
gretfully. 

That  touching  confidence  of  man  in 
feminine  docility  which  has  been  respon 
sible  for  many  an  inapt  marriage  sprang 
up  in  his  heart.  Could  he  not  teach  her 
to  love  him  then  ? 

"  You  will  care  for  some  one,  some 
time.  Why  should  it  not  be  I,  and 
now? "  he  urged. 

She  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  what  to 
believe,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  feel  like  a 
blind  person  groping." 

He  held  his  breath  and  waited.  She 
went  on  slowly  and  painfully. 


60  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  Don't  you  see  how  hard  it  is  ?  One 
doesn't  believe  the  novels,  and  I  never 
knew  any  one  intimately  but  Florence 
who  —  oh  well!  I  don't  think  I  could 
make  you  understand.  It  is  only  that  I 
lack  convictions  about  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  one  should  marry.  There  isn't 
—  I  am  afraid  you  will  laugh  at  this  — 
but  there  isn't  any  reliable  body  of  doc 
trine  on  the  subject !  I  like  you.  I  like 
you  very  much.  I  would  sooner  confide 
my  life  to  you  than  to  any  one  I  ever 
knew.  Its  seems  a  reasonable  idea.  One 
trusts  you  so.  But  I  suppose  that  is  not 
exactly  what  you  want." 

"  I  am  going  to  take  what  I  can  get," 
said  Sefton,  a  little  hoarsely,  "  and  ask  the 
Lord  for  more.  I  know  the  romances 
are  against  me ;  but  Arria,  life  is  on 
my  side.  I  dare  swear  that  if  you  trust 
me  with  yourself  you  will  not  regret  it. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  61 

You  will  be  happy.  I  know  you  will. 
And  I- 

There  was  a  sudden  flush  about  his 
eyes ;  something  very  like  a  tear  made  its 
way  tortuously  down  his  cheek.  Arria 
watched  it,  wondering. 

"  You  will  trust  me,  then  ? "  he  said 
tensely.  "  You  will  let  me  try  to  teach 
you  to  love  me  a  little.  I  am  sure  — 
sure  —  that  you  can  learn." 

He  loomed  at  her  side,  large  and  insis 
tent.  She  felt  herself  stirred  by  his 
strenuousness,  his  obvious  devotion,  and 
driven  by  the  silent  impelling  of  his  will. 

"  I  —  I  will  try,"  she  faltered.  He  bent 
above  her  as  if  he  would  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms,  but  her  calm  eyes  uncon 
sciously  repulsed  him,  and  with  a  breath 
that  was  half  a  sigh,  he  laid  his  lips  to 
her  forehead. 

When  he  was  gone  she  felt  a  sense  of 


62  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

vague  relief.  The  proximity  of  a  strong 
feeling  which  she  did  not  understand  had 
disturbed  her. 

But  she  quite  understood  the  serene 
elation  she  began  to  feel.  It  was  because 
life  was  very  simple,  very  easy,  in  spite  of 
all  she  herself  had  said  to  the  contrary. 
You  had  only  to  choose  your  line,  to  say 
'  I  will  that  my  existence  be  thus  and  so,' 
and  forthwith  —  supposing  you  a  person 
of  character  —  opportunities  arose  and 
events  grouped  themselves  smilingly  on 
either  hand  to  mark  your  progress  down 
the  years.  And  they  were  the  very  events 
you  would  have  chosen  if  you  had  con 
descended  to  choose ! 

She  had  meant  to  put  poverty  and 
misery  out  of  her  life,  and  now  even  the 
remote  possibility  of  them  had  vanished 
like  a  mist  before  the  sun,  in  the  flood  of 
affluence  and  affection  that  rolled  across 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  63 

her  path.  Life  looked  sunny  and  intelli 
gible  to  her,  and  she  was  sure  that  she 
had  done  the  right  and  appointed  thing, 
as  she  went  slowly  out  to  join  the  two 
beneath  the  trees,  who  had  meanwhile 
been  indulging  in  sundry  speculations. 

"  Do  you  suppose  your  cousin  knows 
what  is  happening  ? "  asked  Roderick, 
looking  after  her  as  she  crossed  the  grass 
toward  the  house.  There  was  the  suspi 
cion  of  an  irritable  inflexion  in  his  voice. 
He,  as  well  as  Arrja,  had  been  enjoying 
the  afternoon. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  say.  My  own 
theory  is  that  she  does  not  know.  There 
is  so  much  of  life  and  experience  that 
does  not  come  within  Arria's  range  of 
vision.  She  knows  some  extraordinary 
things,  but  it  is  almost  always  safe  to  as 
sume  that  she  is  ignorant  of  the  obvious." 

"  Do  you  think   she  will  marry  him  ? " 


64  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  My  dear  Roderick  !  Why  don't  you 
ask  me  to  calculate  the  next  eclipse  of 
the  moon  off-hand,  or  some  easy  little 
thing  like  that  ?  Girls  have  married 
middle-aged  millionaires  before  now.  It 
is  not  unusual." 

"  That  seems  to  me  one  reason  the 
more  why  your  cousin  should  not  do  it. 
She  is  not  fond  of  the  usual,"  urged 
Roderick. 

"  She  likes  security.  There  is  some 
thing  very  safe  and  restful  about  the  idea 
of  marrying  Mr.  Sefton.  He  is  a  favour 
able  specimen  of  his  class." 

"  He  is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,"  ad 
mitted  Roderick.  "  And  I  fancy  he  is 
hard  hit." 

"  He  told  me  —  but  that  was  when  they 
first  met  —  that  he  admired  her  because 
she  knew  how  to  think.  He  has  not  yet 
learned  what  a  dubious  merit  that  is  in  a 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  65 

wife.  Suppose  she  does  not  think  as  her 
husband  does !  Mr.  Sefton  and  Arria 
would  be  a  thousand  times  more  likely  to 
differ  about  everything  in  the  world  than 
you  and  I,  for  instance." 

"  Ah !  That  is  another  matter,"  said 
Roderick.  "  Do  you  know,  we  are  such 
good  comrades  that  it  is  often  a  pleasant 
surprise  to  me  when  I  remember  that  we 
are  also  engaged." 

Florence  was  silent,  but  the  slow  colour 
climbed  her  cheeks.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
to  Roderick's  face  with  a  look  that  was  an 
entreaty,  but  he  was  cheerfully  uncon 
scious  that  he  had  said  an  atrocious 
thing. 

Their  world  often  said  how  well  Flor 
ence  and  Roderick  were  suited  to  one 
another.  It  had  never  yet  had  occasion 
to  remark  upon  their  mutual  infatuation. 
She  believed  in  their  suitability  thor- 


66  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

oughly.  But  she  knew  in  the  depths  of  a 
soul  rebellious  at  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  her  wit,  her  philosophy,  her  cynicism 
even,  which  suited  him  —  not  her  heart. 
At  the  beginning  of  their  engagement  she 
had  sometimes  resented  intensely  the 
gentle,  pleased  manner  in  which  he  re 
garded  the  situation,  but  she  had  been 
wise  enough  to  coin  her  own  less  placid 
satisfaction  into  epigrams,  a  proceeding 
which  delighted  Roderick  as  her  ardour 
never  could  have  done. 

"  Mr.  Sefton  will  take  Arria  into  his 
gallery  some  day  and  say,  '  All  this  shall 
be  yours,  if  you  will  suffer  me  to  fall 
down  and  worship  you,' "  she  now  re 
marked  irrelevantly.  "  It  will  be  a  very 
tempting  situation  for  a  girl  of  her 
tastes." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  all  right,"  said  Rod 
erick  discontentedly,  "  but  he  is  too  old, 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  67 

or,  rather,  she  is  too  preposterously  young. 
Her  mind  may  be  mature,  but  the  rest 
of  her  nature  is  in  pinafores,  and  I  don't 
believe  Sefton  is  the  man  to  develop  it. 
It  isn't  the  ideal  marriage  for  her." 

"  Ideal  things  are  not  meant  to  be 
done.  They  are  only  to  look  at,  like 
the  red-cheeked  candy  apples  we  used  to 
have  when  we  were  children.  I  never 
did  succeed  in  understanding  why  such 
beautiful  fruit  was  not  to  be  eaten." 

"  Your  cousin  does  not  regard  ideals 
in  that  light.  She  asks  for  the  absolute 
as  serenely  as  if  the  relative  did  not 
exist.  The  audacity  of  her  demand  on 
life  is  so  splendid  that  it  entitles  her  to 
get  what  she  wants.  The  on-looker  feels 
as  if  he  wanted  to  help  her  to  it." 

"  That  is  probably  what  Mr.  Sefton 
feels,"  said  Florence,  a  little  wearily, 
"  and  what  he  thinks  he  is  doing.  And 


68  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

as  the  world  goes,  ten  or  fifteen  millions 
are  the  Absolute.  What  more  does 
a  young  woman  of  this  generation 
want?" 


VI 

BECAUSE  he  had  obtained  his  heart's 
desire  against  his  own  belief,  Sefton  re 
joiced  unspeakably,  but  still  doubting. 
Happiness  is  a  malady  for  which  the 
strong  are  not  prepared. 

He  had  always  known  that  he  should 
be  rich  some  day.  It  had  been  a  con 
viction,  rather  than  a  dream  or  a  hope, 
of  his  meagre  boyhood  in  a  Maine  vil 
lage.  When  he  went  West  in  his  young 
manhood,  he  found  that  for  the  wise  and 
prudent  there  was  abundant  opportunity 
for  realizing  such  prevision.  A  young 
surveyor,  he  had  gotten  hold  of  some 
timber  lands  first,  which  had  proved  very 
profitable,  and  afterwards  had  invested 
69 


70  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

in  real  estate  on  the  edge  of  some  grow 
ing  towns  destined  to  become  cities. 
His  success  had  been  rapid  and  monot 
onous.  It  had  also  been  unsatisfactory, 
though  what  it  was  that  he  wanted,  he 
did  not  know.  Books  did  not  tell  him, 
nor  the  crude,  glittering  prosperity  of 
the  oxygenated  life  around  him. 

When  first  he  went  to  Europe,  the 
older  and  mellower  civilizations  whis 
pered  to  him  the  unthought-of  tidings 
that  the  word  of  salvation  was  beauty, 
and  he  hailed  the  revelation. 

Returning,  he  left  the  West  and  came 
to  Skanseewan.  He  had  always  desired 
a  country  life,  and  here  beside  the  gray, 
old  river-town  he  resolved  to  build  him 
self  an  abiding-place  for  his  later  years, 
which  should  be  a  propaganda  of  his 
new  doctrine  that  those  who  ran  might 
read.  His  head  was  also  full  of  ideas, 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  71 

so  quixotic  that  he  did  not  talk  of  them, 
for  the  better  instruction  of  the  people 
of  the  town  in  the  art  of  discerning  the 
admirable. 

It  was  only  on  meeting  Arria  James 
that  he  felt  with  a  force  which  shook  his 
sturdy  soul  that  for  him  also  life  had  an 
other  word.  What,  after  all,  was  beauty 
but  Love's  handmaid  ? 

Incidentally,  also,  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
the  man  whose  busy,  lonely  life  had  given 
small  opportunity  for  the  social  inter 
course  in  which  he  really  delighted,  to 
be  welded  into  the  group  of  families  of 
whom  the  Woolseys  and  Kirkes  were 
chief.  Most  of  his  neighbours  had  been 
cordial,  but  these  had  been  kin  as  well 
as  kind.  They  were  people  to  whom  he 
could  talk.  Inherited  wealth  without  in 
telligence  bewildered  this  man's  untutored 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 


72  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Arria's  engagement  had  been  received 
faultlessly  by  the  family.  All  dilated  upon 
Sefton's  character,  and  his  millions  were  al 
lowed  to  sink  into  a  glimmering  golden 
background,  appreciated  but  unmentioned. 

The  Major  gave  her  his  blessing  with 
much  solemnity,  and  then  fell  into  remi 
niscent  anecdotes  of  the  love  affairs  of 
forty  years  ago,  which  were  slightly  in- 
apropos,  inasmuch  as  it  would  seem  young 
women  then  were  more  impetuous  and 
emotional,  and  irreproachable  matches 
which  parents  and  guardians  could  bless 
were  less  frequent  than  to-day. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Woolsey,  kissing 
her,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  to  marry 
a  good  man.  I  pray  you  may  have  as 
happy  a  life  as  my  own  has  been,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  rejoice  that  you  are 
to  be  near  us  always." 

Florence    said    little.       She   was    suffi- 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  73 

ciently  a  daughter  of  to-day  to  appreciate 
the  advantages  of  such  a  marriage,  but  in 
her  secret  soul  she  was  sorry  for  Arria. 
There  was  something  more  dazzling  than 
wealth,  and  her  cousin  had  not  found  it. 
She  lifted  her  small  head  proudly  and 
had  difficulty  in  keeping  a  patronizing 
accent  out  of  her  congratulations. 

Arria  had  never  seen  the  house  which 
was  to  be  her  home  save  as  she  had 
glimpsed  it  one  day  when  they  had  vis 
ited  the  pictures.  She  had  expressed  a 
desire  to  do  so.  Accordingly  Mr.  Sefton 
diffidently  proffered  his  hospitality  for  an 
afternoon  to  the  ladies  of  Rosehedges. 

The  site  of  the  place  was  even  more 
attractive  than  that  of  the  Woolseys' 
home,  for,  standing  on  higher  ground,  it 
commanded  the  faint  blue  hills  in  the 
south  as  well  as  the  river  and  the  moun 
tains  to  northward. 


74  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

The  house  itself,  of  gray  uncut  stone, 
was  Elizabethan  in  style.  There  is  no 
more  piquant  or  interesting  fa9ade,  and 
already  the  creepers  had  begun  to  thicken 
on  the  walls,  obliterating  the  look  which 
stamped  it  as  of  yesterday. 

It  was  frankly  English  in  design,  inside 
and  out.  Sefton  averred  that  no  other 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  has  so 
thoroughly  mastered  the  science  of  com 
fortable  living. 

The  master  of  the  house  received  his 
guests  with  nervous  cordiality.  He  had 
much  to  tell  of  the  building  of  the  struct 
ure,  as  they  passed  from  room  to  room. 
He  had  meant  to  keep  it  simple,  even 
mediaeval  in  its  simplicity.  Most  modern 
houses  were  too  elaborate,  too  rococo  for 
his  taste.  Did  they  care  for  carving? 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  it  —  it  was 
one  of  his  hobbies.  He  had  spent  six 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  75 

months  in  England  with  his  architect, — 
who  was  out  of  health  and  required  a 
vacation,  —  wandering  from  place  to  place, 
choosing  and  sketching  designs  for  it. 
Those  were  months!  Cathedral,  college, 
church,  and  hall  had  been  laid  under  con 
tribution  for  the  work.  Did  they  notice 
the  springing  of  that  fan-tracery  in  the 
ceiling  of  the  dining-room  oriel  ?  It  was 
the  grim,  grotesque  head  which  occupies 
the  same  position  in  the  great  dining-hall 
of  Christ's  at  Oxford.  And  that  head,  half 
devil  and  half  lion,  repeated  in  the  frieze, 
that  was  a  bit  from  Magdalen.  For  sim 
plicity  and  strength  surely  the  carving  of 
the  best  English  period  was  unequalled. 
He  looked  anxiously  at  Arria.  Perhaps 
she  preferred  designs  in  the  Italian  man 
ner?  It  would  be  most  unfortunate,  for 
hall,  music-room,  and  dining-room  were 
panelled,  ceiled,  and  carved  in  quite  an- 


76  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

other  taste.  The  drawing-room  alone  was 
less  massive  and  suggested  France. 

But  Arria,  it  transpired,  had  fond  mem 
ories  of  playing  in  her  childhood  with  the 
ponderous  and  priceless  tomes  of  Pugin's 
Gothic  Architecture,  and  she  adored  gro 
tesques.  He  breathed  more  freely. 

"  What  a  delight,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  you  will  find  in  travel.  There 
are  so  many  things  I  want  to  show  you ! 
There  is  an  old  church  porch  I  know 
in  France  that  you  will  like.  A  group 
of  saints  and  martyrs  on  the  pillars  are 
lifting  insipid,  holy  faces,  while  beneath 
the  feet  of  each  one  crouches  a  cower 
ing  devil,  obviously  overcome  and  de 
feated.  They  have  beaten  down  Satan 
under  their  feet,  and  they  are  distinctly 
less  interesting  from  the  fact  that  he 
looks  as  if  he  could  never  rise  again.  Un 
consciously  the  carver  demonstrated  that 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  77 

life  is  struggle,"  and,  without  knowing  it, 
the  self-made  man  squared  his  shoulders. 

The  housekeeper  was  summoned  to 
escort  them  through  the  upper  apart 
ments.  At  one  of  the  smaller  bed 
chambers  Florence  paused  to  rhapsodize. 
The  room  was  finished  in  mahogany 
and  done  in  the  dullest,  softest  blues,  so 
toned  that  the  border-pieces  of  old  tapes 
try  which  were  used  for  a  dado  above  a 
low  wainscoting  of  the  rich  wood  were 
not  thrown  out  of  value  by  any  cruder 
colouring.  The  dressing-room  was  a 
mere  recess  in  which  a  length  of  the 
same  soft-toned  tapestry,  swinging  aside, 
revealed  an  antique  ewer  and  bowl  of 
silver  over  whose  curves  Miss  Woolsey 
became  enthusiastic. 

"  Those  aren't  to  be  picked  up  every 
day !  I  never  saw  but  one  at  all  like  it. 
It  is  scandalous  that  a  mere  man  should 


78  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

have  such  good  taste.  Arria,  how  are 
you  going  to  live  up  to  it  ? " 

The  girl,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
door-way  with  a  wearied  air,  looked  up 
indifferently. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  almost  resentfully,  "it  is 
very  charming.  But  they  are  only  things, 
after  all.  I  have  often  wondered  why  so 
clever  a  person  as  the  devil  used  the  king 
doms  of  the  world  and  the  glory  thereof 
for  a  temptation.  It  is  never  the  materi?! 
things  that  tempt  persons  of  taste." 

"Oh,  isn't  it?"  said  her  cousin. 

Going  down,  they  found  that  Rod 
erick  and  the  Major  awaited  them,  and 
that  tea  had  been  served  upon  the  lawn 
in  English  fashion.  The  service  was  of 
old  silver  also,  and  a  delight  to  the  eye, 
while  all  the  other  appointments  were 
equally  flawless. 

Roderick  came  presently  to  Florence's 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  79 

side,  where  she  sat  in  shaded  comfort, 
trifling  with  her  tea. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "and  what  of  Sef- 
ton's  bibelots?  Don't  they  make  you 
envious  of  the  little  cousin  ?  We  shan't 
have  any  such,  you  know." 

"  They  are  extraordinary,  certainly.  I 
never  saw  such  an  original  collection  of 
bric-a-brac.  It  is  distinguished,  different. 
Some  of  his  embroideries  are  marvellous, 
and  the  way  he  has  used  them  better  yet. 
I  don't  see  how  he  came  to  have  such 
good  taste.  But  as  for  envying  any  one, 
Arria  was  just  remarking  superbly  that 
such  like  articles  were,  after  all,  of  the 
earth,  and  were  not  temptations  to  per 
sons  of  discrimination.  I  am  a  person 
of  discrimination,  and  "  —  her  eyes  chal 
lenged  his  — "  the  only  mortal  I  can  im 
agine  envying  would  be  a  woman  who 
could  interest  you  more  than  I." 


8o  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Roderick,  po 
litely,  "  that  any  one  could  be  more 
interesting." 

Florence  rose  abruptly. 

"  Look  at  Arria,"  she  said.  His  glance 
followed  hers  where  the  girl  stood  for 
the  moment  apart.  As  they  looked,  her 
gaze  turned  from  the  far,  faint  hills  in 
the  north  to  the  generous  and  gracious 
structure  behind  them,  then  to  the  man 
whose  thought  it  was.  Her  expression 
was  critical,  detached,  dispassionate. 

"  There  is  a  glittering  chill  about  her 
sometimes  that  makes  me  shiver.  It 
reminds  me  of  what  we  read  of  polar 
springs.  They  say  the  flowers  the  sun 
wrests  from  the  ice-cap  are  very  beauti 
ful,  but  one  must  go  a-maying  in  furs. 
She  is  weighing  us  all  in  the  balance 
now,  particularly  Mr.  Sefton,  and  we 
shall  all  be  found  wanting  unless  we 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  8 1 

immediately  make  ourselves  charming. 
Come,  let  us  talk  to  her." 

Roderick  found  himself  suddenly  irri 
tated,  without  knowing  why. 

"  No,"  he  said  peremptorily,  "  let  us 
stay  here  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  And 
we  all  let  that  girl  absorb  too  much  of 
our  attention.  It  is  most  absurd !  " 


VII 

IT  is  not  necessary  to  be  good  in 
order  to  be  unhappy.  Major  Woolsey 
was  acutely  miserable.  The  Major's 
happiness  had  never  been  more  than  an 
orchid,  for  it  was  rooted  in  and  nour 
ished  by  his  wife's  belief  in  him ;  that 
gone,  it  had  neither  food  nor  foothold. 

In  his  youth  the  Major  had  worshipped 
his  beautiful  young  wife  with  a  romantic 
affection.  The  other  dewy  enthusiasms 
and  beliefs  of  that  far-off  hour  had  van 
ished  beneath  the  scorching  sun  of 
middle  life,  leaving  this  sole  survivor. 
The  Major  worshipped  his  wife  still. 
The  fact  was  patent  to  the  most  careless 
observer.  Converse  casually  with  the 
82 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  83 

Major,  and  he  struck  you  but  as  that 
commonplace  wreckage  of  a  man  which 
forty  years  of  ease-loving  and  pleasure- 
seeking  will  make  of  any  fine  young 
fellow.  Pulpy  and  unpleasant  to  the 
spiritual  touch  as  jelly-fish  dissolving  in 
a  beach-pool,  such  men  are,  but  so  en 
tirely  usual  that  you  pass  them  without 
comment.  But  mention  Mrs.  Woolsey, 
and  the  Major's  face  melted,  grew  tender, 
glowed  with  a  curious  exaltation.  If  it 
was  after  dinner,  his  lip  was  likely  to 
quiver  as  he  toasted  you  "  Woman,"  in 
his  wine  —  that  last  glass  which  he 
should  not  have  taken. 

"  Why,  what  a  dear  old  boy  he  is,"  you 
would  say  to  yourself  in  surprise,  and 
go  away  pondering  over  this  unexpected 
revelation  of  an  unsubmerged  ideal. 

But  the  Major's  worship  of  his  wife, 
unaided,  had  not  been  efficacious  for  his 


84  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

preservation  from  the  moral  wear  and 
tear  of  existence.  His  virtues  were  old- 
fashioned.  His  vices  —  but  the  fashion 
of  the  vices  is  unchangeable.  Not  being 
equal  to  the  task  of  lifting  his  conduct 
to  her  standards,  he  had  devoted  him 
self  sedulously  to  concealing  from  her 
eyes  the  schism  between  her  precepts 
and  his  practice.  Having  to  do  with  a 
gentlewoman  of  the  old  school  who  knew 
little  and  cared  less  about  the  miasms 
of  existence,  he  was  singularly  suc 
cessful. 

A  preference  for  looking  into  the  most 
flattering  mirror  in  the  house  is  but 
human.  Given  the  choice  of  seeing  him 
self  through  his  own  eyes  or  his  wife's, 
the  Major  preferred  the  latter.  The 
vision  there  indicated  did  not  deceive, 
but  it  comforted  him.  After  all,  there 
surely  must  be  something  rather  fine 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  85 

about  the  man  whose  wife  still  thought 
him,  at  past  sixty,  the  ideal  gentleman 
of  the  school  she  had  been  trained  to 
admire. 

But  now  all  that  was  over.  It  does 
not  matter  into  which  of  the  snares  set 
for  humanity  —  they  are  few  in  number, 
yet  many  there  be  who  fall  therein  — 
the  Major,  stepping  too  carelessly  one 
summer's  day,  tripped  and  went  head 
long  for  all  the  world  to  see. 

The  world's  disapprobation  the  Major 
could  have  endured.  The  world  was  a 
hoary  hypocrite,  and  he  knew  it.  But 
when  he  turned  to  Elizabeth's  eyes,  long 
homes  of  adoration,  and  found  them 
blank,  his  soul  was  rent.  For  three  days 
he  suffered  silently,  and  then  he  spoke. 
And  destiny  decreed  that  his  niece  should 
hear  him. 

Arria    had    gone    out    on    the    eastern 


86  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

balcony,  opening  from  her  own  room, 
for  an  hour  or  two  of  serious  medita 
tion.  Lying  on  a  pile  of  cushions  and 
looking  up  through  the  feathery  branches 
of  a  locust-tree,  which  overshadowed  her, 
to  the  blue  sky  beyond,  she  had  tried  to 
find  out  why  her  engagement  no  longer 
seemed  to  her  the  satisfactory  solution 
of  all  her  life  which  it  had  appeared  at 
first.  Its  privileges  had  ceased  to  enter 
tain,  and  its  responsibilities  loomed  near 
and  appalling.  If  one  could  only  be 
engaged  comfortably  without  having 
always  at  hand  a  middle-aged  lover  with 
haunting  eyes !  She  had  not  bargained 
for  that  hungry,  absorbing  quality  of 
glance  which  claimed  and  held  the  whole 
of  her.  It  was  highly  unnecessary. 
She  never  looked  at  him  like  that ! 

These  meditations  were  engrossing,  but 
the  drowsy  August  air  and  the  drone  of 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic          87 

the  locusts  prevailed  against  them,  and 
she  fell  asleep. 

Waking  after  an  hour  or  two,  she 
heard  through  the  near  window  voices 
from  the  room  adjoining.  Sleepily  she 
recognized  that  it  must  be  her  uncle  who 
spoke,  but  his  voice  came  harshly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Elizabeth,  say  some 
thing  to  me.  Do  you  think  I  can  bear 
this?" 

Silence. 

"  Elizabeth  —  Elizabeth,"  the  voice 
thickened  and  quavered  in  absolute  aban 
donment,  "  I  am  not  excusing  nor  deny 
ing,  nor  acquitting  myself  of  anything. 
I  have  not  led  the  kind  of  life  you 
thought  I  led.  It  may  be  you  are 
humiliated,  hurt,  disgusted  —  but  I  ask 
you,  as  the  Lord  is  to  judge  you,  what 
of  it?" 

Arria  sprang  up  silently.     These  things 


88  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

were  not  for  her  ears.  She  turned  to 
the  window,  but  it  had  been  closed  while 
she  slept.  She  shook  it.  It  was  locked 
as  well ! 

In  heavy  gusts  the  Major's  voice  went 
on: 

"  You  know,  God  knows,  whatever  my 
failings,  I  love  you.  My  sweet,  think! 
What  other  question  is  there  between 
you  and  me  but  that  ? " 

"  Hush  ! "  a  woman's  voice  cried  tensely. 
"  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  cannot  understand 
it.  All  other  men — but  not  my  husband. 
No,  no,  no!" 

"  You  will  never  understand.  You 
will  never  see  your  way  through  it. 
But  if  you  can  love  me  in  spite  of  it, 
what  will  it  matter?  Can't  you  feel  that? 
Elizabeth  —  my  wife !  " 

A  murmured  answer. 

"You  can't  mean  that!     Think!     Why 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  89 

Elizabeth,  you  kill  me — you  kill  me.  I 
have  loved  you  forty  years.  Why  .  .  . 
Elizabeth,  I  must  make  you  see  it  as  I 
do!" 

Arria  cowered  against  the  window, 
trembling  in  every  nerve.  The  tearing 
sound  of  a  man's  sobs,  hoarse  and  terri 
ble,  was  in  her  ears.  She  must  get  away 
from  it  somehow.  She  must.  She  caught 
up  a  book  from  the  floor  and  with  one 
quick  blow  broke  the  glass  above  the 
lock.  The  thick  carpet  drowned  the 
sound  of  the  falling  fragments.  She 
thrust  her  hand  through  the  jagged  hole, 
and  in  a  second  was  safe  in  her  own 
room. 

She  seized  a  handkerchief  and  hastily 
wrapped  it  around  her  bleeding  wrist, 
still  trembling.  She  must  get  out  where 
the  blue  sky  was,  and  the  familiar,  friendly 
sunshine,  away  from  this  atmosphere  sur- 


QO  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

charged  with  the  horror  of  an  unknown 
force.  The  very  air  she  breathed  seemed 
to  be  electric  with  it,  and  she  alone 
walked  unmoved  and  uncomprehending. 

The  spell  was  on  them  all.  At  least 
—  all  but  Roderick.  She  had  found 
Florence's  proximity  volcanic  from  the 
first ;  then  came  her  elderly  lover  to  dis 
turb  her  peace,  and  now  —  this.  And 
this  was  worst  of  all.  She  had  thought 
her  uncle  beyond  being  moved  by  any 
thing  but  a  bad  investment  or  a  bad 
dinner.  It  seemed  the  soul  in  him  was 
still  quick.  Did  the  heart  live  to  the 
grave's  very  verge  ?  Was  love  a  word  to 
conjure  with  at  sixty? 

She  hastened  away  from  the  house, 
down  the  long  approach,  not  thinking 
where  she  went  until,  hearing  the  sound 
of  wheels,  she  looked  up  and  saw  Sefton 
driving  in  at  the  gates.  Perceiving  her, 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  91 

he  threw  the  reins  to  his  groom  and 
jumped  down.  The  man  drove  on,  and 
Sefton  turned  to  Arria,  holding  out  both 
hands  with  a  boyish  eagerness. 

Usually  she  accepted  his  greeting  pas 
sively.  Herself,  she  thought  kissing  a 
somewhat  senseless  performance,  but  if  it 
was  to  his  taste,  very  well.  It  was  a  lover's 
traditional  privilege. 

To-day,  however,  for  some  reason,  it 
seemed  sacrilegious  as  well  as  senseless. 
She  stamped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"  O  go  away ! "  she  cried.  "  I  really 
cannot  bear  that  sort  of  thing  now." 

Then,  sitting  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree 
by  the  drive,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Sefton  quietly  sat  down  beside  her,  his 
air  of  immobile  intensity  more  in  evidence 
than  usual.  The  glow  had  died  out  of 
his  face,  and  taking  up  her  hand  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way  he  undid  the  blood- 


92  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

stained  handkerchief  and  looked  at  the 
cuts  on  her  wrist. 

"  You  have  cut  yourself  severely,"  he 
said.  "  How  did  that  happen  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  hurt.  It  is  nothing,"  she 
said  impatiently,  and  tried  to  draw  away 
her  hand,  but  he  retained  it,  whereat  she 
began  to  shed  tears  again. 

"  You  are  nervous.  Tell  me  what  has 
happened." 

"  I  am  not  nervous.  I  never  am.  I 
was  just  crying  —  accidentally.  I  wish 
you  would  not  hold  my  hand.  I  am 
not  going  to  marry  you.  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  anybody.  It  is  all  so 
irrevocable  and  horrible.  One  never  gets 
over  it." 

"  No,"  said  Sefton  slowly,  "  one  never 
gets  over  it."  He  put  her  hand  back  in 
her  lap  with  a  sigh. 

"  But   that   is   not   a   reason   why   you 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  93 

should  throw  me  over.  And  you  are 
always  reasonable,"  he  said  gravely. 

A  detestation  of  her  own  reasonable 
ness  sprang  into  life  fullgrown  in  Arria's 
soul.  Why  had  she  ever  educated  people, 
herself  included,  to  expect  anything  so 
odious  of  her? 

"  I  am  not  —  a  marriageable  person," 
she  said  hastily,  trying  to  remove  the 
traces  of  tears  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  I    differ  with  you    there,  you   know." 

"  I  do  not "  —  she  gulped  over  the 
objectionable  term  —  "  love  you." 

"  You  promised  to  try  to  learn.  What 
has  come  between  you  and  me  ? " 

What  indeed  ?  Arria  did  not  know. 
She  only  felt  that  a  world's  diameter  sepa 
rated  her  from  the  girl  who  had  accepted 
with  such  serenity  the  enviable  prospect 
of  becoming  Mrs.  Sefton.  The  one  essen 
tial  thing  just  now  was  to  get  away  and 


94  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

be  free.  It  did  not  matter  whom  she 
hurt,  nor  how. 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  want  to 
think  about  it.  Let  me  go,  please.  I 
want  to  —  to  take  a  walk.  I  shall  never 
marry  you  —  never." 

The  dumb  reproach  of  his  eyes  did  not 
hurt  her,  nor  the  helpless  laxity  of  his 
firm-cut  mouth.  She  only  rejoiced  that 
the  conversation  was  drawing  to  an  end. 
He  had  risen  and  stood  aside. 

"  You  have  no  cause  to  shun  me,  child," 
he  said  quietly.  "  I  would  not  detain  you 
against  your  will.  We  will  talk  of  this 
some  other  day.  And  in  the  meantime, 
if  it  makes  you  happier,  consider  that  I 
have  released  you — for  the  present." 


VIII 

A  MAN  may  be  an  exemplary  citizen 
and  yet  it  may  not  be  easy  to  recognize 
a  portrait  of  him  drawn  by  his  fiancee. 
If  it  is  difficult  for  him  to  live  up  to  his 
own  ideals,  how  hardly  shall  he  compass 
those  of  the  woman  who  loves  him  ? 

Roderick  Kirke  was  walking  along  the 
highway  toward  sunset  of  the  day  which 
Arria  had  found  so  agitating.  He  moved 
with  a  quick,  easy  stride,  singing  under 
his  breath  as  he  went,  but  his  thoughts 
were  serious,  for,  with  that  comprehen 
sion  of  another's  standpoint  which  was 
one  of  his  marked  characteristics,  he  was 
looking  at  .himself  through  Florence's 
eyes,  and  the  vision  seemed  ignoble. 
95 


96  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Even  according  to  his  own  standards 
he  had  observed  certain  defections  in 
himself  of  late.  As  yet  they  were  en 
tirely  abstract  in  their  character,  and  he 
was  not  disposed  to  exaggerate  their  im 
portance  as  a  less  robust  nature  might 
have  done.  Rather,  he  would  be  thank 
ful  that  he  had  discovered  his  derelict 
tendencies  while  they  were  still  formless 
and  void.  There  is  nothing  like  taking 
oneself  in  hand  in  time.  He  would  stop 
where  he  was,  thanking  God,  as  an  honest 
gentleman  should,  that  no  one  was  hurt 
but  himself. 

Having  reached  this  decision,  and  re 
garding  the  matter  as  settled  once  for 
all,  he  forgave  himself  in  Florence's  name 
and  lifted  his  eyes  to  note  how  far  he  had 
progressed  upon  his  homeward  journey. 

He  was  passing  through  a  little  ravine 
whose  sides  were  clothed  with  firs.  Under 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  97 

a  tree  half-way  up  the  hill  was  a  slender, 
dejected  figure  in  a  white  frock.  Her 
face  was  turned  away  from  him,  but  the 
big  mull  hat  with  its  pink  roses  was  a 
familiar  acquaintance. 

He  hesitated  a  second  and  made  as  if 
he  would  go  on,  then  swerved  abruptly, 
and  throwing  himself  over  the  stone  wall 
strode  up  the  slope.  Stopping  at  the 
girl's  side,  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"  Don't  you  know  it  is  dinner-time  at 
your  house  ?  "  he  said  severely.  "  Why 
are  you  not  on  your  way  to  dinner  ?  " 

Arria  lifted  her  face  to  his  joyously,  as 
a  child  might  have  done.  Roderick  was 
such  a  good  friend  to  her.  If  he  would 
but  talk  to  her  now,  it  would  lift  her,  as 
it  always  did,  into  a  calm  but  happy 
world.  The  sight  of  him  comforted  her. 
Here,  she  felt,  but  knew  not  why,  was 
shelter  and  safety. 


98  The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"Do  scold  me!"  she  answered.  "It  is 
so  restful.  I  have  been  trying  to  scold 
myself  all  the  afternoon,  and  I  simply 
can't  do  it." 

He  scrutinized  her  face.  The  traces 
of  tears  were  still  visible. 

"  Why  is  your  doll  temporarily  stuffed 
with  sawdust  ? "  he  demanded.  "  It  is 
only  temporary,  you  know.  Tell  me 
about  it,  if  you  can." 

Arria's  spirits  rose  unwarrantably.  It 
is  good  to  be  called  to  account  by  a  sym 
pathetic  soul  when  one  suspects  that  one 
has  made  a  mess  of  things. 

"  I  have  been  breaking  off  my  engage 
ment  with  Mr.  Sefton,"  she  began  obedi 
ently.  "  I  had  no  idea  engagements  were 
so  difficult  to  fracture.  It  —  it  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  to  do." 

Roderick  suppressed  a  movement  of 
surprise,  then  sat  down  beside  her  on 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic  99 

the  rock  and  began  to  pull  a  daisy  to 
pieces  with  unnecessary  violence. 

"  Outside  of  a  humorous  weekly,  no," 
he  said  drily.  "Sefton  is  a  good  fellow. 
Besides  his  more  obvious  advantages,  he 
is  one  of  the  few  strong  and  honest  men 
the  Lord  has  made.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  hard  on  Sefton." 

"  I  know  he  is  good.  And  strong. 
And  reliable.  I  know  all  about  his 
obvious  advantages,"  said  Arria.  "  All 
these  things  had  great  weight  with  me. 
They  have  still.  But  somehow — I  simply 
had  to  put  an  end  to  it.  I  don't  know 
why.  He  was  so  good  he  made  me  want 
to  hurt  him.  I  must  have  been  too  self- 
confident  in  the  beginning.  It  was  all  a 
mistake !  " 

"  How,"  Roderick  heard  himself  asking, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  daisy,  "did  you 
happen  to  find  that  out  ? " 


ioo         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Arria  paused.  Then,  with  that  impulse 
toward  confidence  which  is  in  itself  a 
subtle  intoxication,  rendering  its  subject 
momentarily  irresponsible,  she  began  her 
little  tale. 

She  told  it  rapidly  and  picturesquely, 
sketching  in  lightly  her  sombre  child 
hood,  and  dwelling  a  little  upon  the  re 
actionary  thirst  for  life  and  enjoyment 
with  which  it  had  inspired  her.  Her 
cheeks  took  a  richer  carmine  as  she 
talked.  Her  deep  eyes  grew  more  alive. 
She  was  absorbed  in  her  subject,  excited, 
interested.  Her  auditor  she  seemed  to 
have  forgotten. 

"  And  so  when  Mr.  Sefton  came  it 
seemed  as  if  all  my  life  had  simply  been 
leading  up  to  that  climax,  and  I  accepted 
it  as  the  natural  and  fitting  one.  Why 
not?  Then,  all  at  once,  just  as  I  sup 
posed  myself  in  port,  arrived,  I  found  I 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         101 

was  at  sea  and  drifting.  My  content  in 
the  situation  was  all  gone.  I  could  not 
satisfy  myself,  nor  him.  Everything  that 
had  seemed  solid  and  substantial  melted 
away  into  mist.  The  beautiful  and  fitting 
climax  to  my  life  suddenly  turned  hideous 
and  looked  like  something  else. 

"  And  then,"  she  turned  and  faced  him 
with  perplexed  eyes,  "  people  were  always 
disturbing  me  by  saying  things  about 
love  and  loving  that  I  did  not  under 
stand.  Florence  disturbs  me.  Even  my 
uncle  and  aunt  —  "  She  stopped  herself. 
That  story  was  not  hers  to  tell.  "Even 
to  them,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  love  is 
very  serious,  and  can  still  make  life 
tragic  —  just  think! — on  the  very  outer 
edge  of  life.  It  seems  almost  incredible 
to  me,  but  since  it  is  a  fact,  it  must  be 
that  there  is  something  wrong  with  my 
theories.  Everything  I  have  thought 


IO2          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

about  it  seems  turned  into  nothingness. 
.  .  .  And  so  I  thought  my  engagement 
might  as  well  turn  to  nothing  too." 

The  dear,  perplexed  face  was  too  near. 
It  was  intolerable!  Roderick  rose  im 
petuously. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  brokenly,  "  it  was  an 
easy  solution  to  the  problem  of  your  life 

—  but  it  was  not  the  answer  in  the  book. 
And  now — "  he  broke  off,  looked  down 
at  her,  then  set  his  teeth  and  hurried  on. 
"  Now   you  want   to    begin    again.      You 
want   the   real  —  the    eternal.     You  want 

—  to  love.     Dear,  let  me  show  you  how!  " 
She  looked  up  wonderingly  at  his  agi 
tated  face. 

Roderick  too? 

His  hands  were  stretched  toward  her. 
How  was  it  that  without  conscious  voli 
tion  she  was  standing  beside  him,  her 
hands  in  his  ? 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         103 

And  how  came  it  that  their  lips  met? 

"  Ah  !  That,"  she  cried  sharply,  trem 
bling  between  wrath  and  tears,  "  that 
was  not  a  kiss  ...  it  was  an  Event ! " 

"  Do  you  not  wish,"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  of  tender  triumph,  "  that  there 
should  be  such  events  in  your  life  —  and 
in  mine  ? " 

"  Certainly  not !  "  said  Arria,  stooping 
to  pick  up  her  gloves  and  striving  for 
her  composure.  "  I  do  not  want  —  events 
in  my  life  that  have  no  place  there." 

"  Do  you  doubt,  then,"  he  said  so  low 
she  scarcely  heard,  "  to  whom  my  kisses 
belong?" 

"  To  Florence,"  she  cried  in  sharp  pro 
test.  "  She  has  everything.  She  must 
have  everything  —  if  honour  is  anything 
but  a  name,  if  uprightness  is,  if  we  have 
not  been  living  in  a  world  of  moral  mis 
conceptions  all  our  lives." 


104          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  I  think,"  muttered  Roderick  beneath 
his  breath,  "  that  honour  is  a  theory  too. 
Nothing  is  true  but  this." 

"  This  is  not  true  if  it  would  make  us 
false ! " 

"You  admit  then,  that  even  for  you  — 
this  is  ? "  watching  her  with  eyes  whose 
appeal  she  knew  not  how  to  evade.  How 
could  she  make  him  understand  what 
she  herself  had  not  yet  begun  to  appre 
hend  ? 

"I  think  — "  she  began  helplessly. 

Roderick's  face  lit  up.  She  could  not 
deny  it,  then  ? 

"Don't  think!  Ah,  don't!"  he  said 
almost  gaily.  "  You  admit  that  you  have 
made  a  failure  of  thinking.  Let  it  alone 
for  a  while.  Feel.  Thinking  isn't  a  fit 
occupation  for  an  emotional  being,  any 
how." 

Arria   made   no    answer.      She    turned 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         105 

and  went  down  the  little  slope.  When 
they  were  in  the  highway,  "  I  must  think," 
she  said,  "  of  Florence."  But  she  said  it 
mechanically  and  without  conviction.  It 
was  more  than  difficult  just  then  to 
think  of  anything  but  that  new  confus 
ing  tumult  in  her  heart.  "  You  —  are 

O 

engaged." 

At  this  bald  statement,  Roderick 
frowned. 

"  Engagements  have  been  known  to  be 
broken,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  bitter 
ness.  "  You,  for  instance,  seem  to  have 
had  no  difficulty  in  breaking  one  this 
very  afternoon.  Such  things  happen  and 
people  live  on.  Suppose  we  consider  the 
problem  without  that  factor  for  a  short 
time.  We  will  think  of  what  we  owe 
other  people  later  on.  Just  now  —  Ar- 
ria,  I  want  you  to  think  of  me." 

She    shook    her    head.      That    was    a 


io6          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

fatally  easy  thing  to  do,  but  she  did  not 
mean  to  tell  him  so. 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  time. 

"  Those  people,"  said  Roderick  at  last, 
speaking  as  one  having  authority,  in  a 
deep  voice  she  had  begun  to  dread,  "who 
can  never  give  up  their  beliefs  for  their 
feelings  should  stay  in  the  intellectual 
world.  It  is  where  they  belong.  There 
is  not  enough  law  and  order  and  sequence 
of  things  in  the  emotional  life  for  them. 
Its  contrasts  are  too  sharp,  its  reactions 
are  too  violent,  its  results  too  causeless. 
It  is  not  theirs.  But  it  is  the  only  real 
world  just  the  same !  " 

"  I  never  meant,"  she  said  with  quiver 
ing  lip,  "to  make  any  excursions  in  the 
emotional  world  with  you." 

They  had  reached  the  gates  of  Rose- 
hedges,  where  the  great  trees  made  per 
petual  dusk,  and  she  turned  to  go  in. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         107 

With  a  swift,  defiant  gesture  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  her  lips  trembled 
beneath  his. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  mean  it  either. 
But  now  that  we  have  begun  there  shall 
be  no  returning.  We  must  go  on  to 
gether  to  the  end." 


IX 

A  NIGHT  of  reflection  showed  the  events 
of  the  day  before  in  a  lurid  light  to  Arria. 

Of  reflection?  Of  action  rather  !  She 
found  it  no  passive  thing  to  be  called 
upon  to  face  the  unbelievable,  to  down 
the  invincible,  to  acknowledge  the  su 
preme. 

Great  surges  of  feeling  caught  her  and 
tossed  her  to  and  fro.  She  was  horribly 
wretched.  She  was  incredibly  happy. 
In  each  mood  the  other  seemed  irra 
tional.  But  what  was  it  to  be  rational  ? 
Was  it  not  to  cede  to  the  strongest  logic? 
There  was  in  the  sound  of  Roderick's 
voice,  the  look  of  his  eye,  the  touch  of 
his  hand,  a  potency  of  argument  she 
108 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         109 

had  been  unwilling  heretofore  to  accord 
even  to  pure  reason. 

Of  one  thing  she  was  sure.  These 
were  the  main  currents  of  life.  Was  it 
not  better  to  be  drowned  in  stemming 
them  than  to  float  in  the  shallows  safely? 
How  strong  they  were!  Heretofore  the 
assurance  that  she  was  a  reasonable  and 
reasoning  being  had  seemed  sufficient 
guarantee  that  she  could  win  from  the 
crises  of  existence  a  subjective  victory  at 
least.  As  well  attempt  the  crossing  of 
torrents  on  cobwebs. 

For  one  brief,  perilous  hour  it  seemed  a 
beautiful  thing  to  be  thus  weak  compared 
to  the  strength  of  love.  In  such  weak 
ness  she  might  well  exult  and  be  glad. 
To  drift  was  better  than  to  strive  with 
the  current  that  never  has  been  stayed. 
Why  should  she  struggle  ?  She  was  but 
drifting  the  way  the  great  tides  go. 


no          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Life  grew  luminous  before  her  sleepless 
eyes.  The  end  and  all  the  way  were  plain. 
She  had  looked  forward  unconsciously  all 
her  young  years  for  something  supreme 
to  happen,  for  the  hour  of  destiny  to  strike. 
For  her  it  had  come,  and  it  was  —  this. 
"  I  am  on  the  down-hill  side  of  life,  now," 
she  thought,  and  shivered  at  the  fancy. 

Growing  calmer,  she  fell  to  wondering. 
If  this  was  love,  it  was  strangely  simple. 
Her  strongest  feeling  was  an  overwhelm 
ing  sensation  of  home.  Where  Roderick 
was,  was  her  predestined  abiding-place.  It 
must  be  so.  There  she  belonged.  There 
was  joy  as  well  as  peace.  She  exulted  in 
the  thought.  Why  not?  It  made  her 
happy.  It  was  so  easy,  so  normal,  to  be 
happy. 

Then  the  inevitable  reaction  came  with 
frightful  strength.  The  thought  of  Flor 
ence  stung  her,  scorched  her,  made  her 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic          1 1 1 

hide  her  face  even  from  the  darkness.  If 
only  it  could  have  been  some  other 
woman !  It  was  true,  as  Roderick  had 
said,  engagements  were  easily  broken. 
So  were  some  hearts.  And  Florence, 
who  believed  in  nothing,  who  cared  for 
nothing,  who  wanted  nothing  but  just  this 
thing  —  this  which  was  Arria's  own,  hers 
inalienably,  it  seemed,  yet  hers  only  as 
the  thief's  booty  is  his  own  —  what  of 
Florence  ?  It  was  terrible,  and  yet  — 

"It  is  very  singular!"  she  said  aloud. 
"  I  am  trying  to  despise  myself.  I  cannot 
—  yet  I  know  I  ought." 

She  had  never  conceived  as  possible 
the  appalling  divorce  of  the  reason  and 
the  conscience  which  she  presently  per 
ceived  in  the  depths  of  her  consciousness. 
She  thought  herself  incredibly  base,  yet 
felt  herself  absolved  from  all  hint  of 
wrong-doing. 


1 1 2          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  It  is  wrong,  wrong,  wrong !  "  she  said, 
yet  felt  no  wrong,  and  wondered  help 
lessly,  not  knowing  she  had  stumbled  into 
the  spiritual  region  of  the  magnetic  pole, 
where  compasses  are  useless  and  the  sea 
farer  steers  by  the  stars  alone. 

When  the  day  dawned  it  found  her  by 
her  window  watching  for  it  in  weariness 
of  spirit.  But  there  is  a  peace  in  exhaus 
tion  such  as  vigour  does  not  know.  And 
with  the  coming  of  the  light  came  also 
illumination,  not  perhaps  upon  her  duty, 
but  upon  her  intention.  Duties  are  com 
pulsory,  and  Arria  felt  strongly  within 
her  the  consciousness  of  choice.  What 
she  meant  to  do  was  perhaps  not  neces 
sary  —  she  did  not  dogmatize  —  but  it 
was  preferable.  She  chose  it.  She  had 
proved  the  philosophy  of  self-seeking  a 
mistake.  She  would  try  that  of  self-abne 
gation.  She  knew  she  was  stronger  than 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         113 

her  cousin.  Our  strength  is  our  most 
exacting  taskmaster.  It  demands  for 
itself  stony  roads  to  travel,  heavy  hills  to 
climb,  burdens  to  bear.  All  this  Arria 
had  never  known  before.  Faintheartedly 
she  recognized  it  now,  longing  for  that 
weakness  which  is  the  happier  lot. 

Later  in  the  day  her  intention  took 
shape  in  a  letter  —  her  first  love-letter. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  wrote,  "  that  you  are 
right.  This  must  be  love.  It  stirs  me  so. 

"You  think,  or  seem  to  think — I  can 
not  be  sure,  for  you  only  showed  me  what 
you  felt,  not  what  you  thought  at  all  — 
that  it  is  an  invincible  thing,  that  it  comes 
and  takes  us  and  makes  of  us  what  it  will. 
But  I  seem  to  see  very  clearly  that  it  is 
what  we  make  of  it.  It  comes  like  any 
other  human  experience,  like  life  itself, 
and  we  are  free  to  make  of  it  what  we 
will,  a  high  thing  or  a  low. 


H4          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  make  an  evil 
thing  of  mine,  false,  selfish,  base.  I  love 
you  too  much  —  already  —  to  love  you 
so. 

"  But  I  am  not  pretending  for  an  in 
stant  that  I  like  to  be  good  —  if  good 
it  is.  I  do  not.  I  hate  to  give  you  up. 
I  do  not  know  how  to  rid  myself  of 
the  thought  of  you.  It  is  around  me 
like  the  atmosphere  already.  But  I  can 
teach  myself  to  bear  that,  I  suppose ; 
and  by  and  by  —  I  am  afraid  it  will  take 
years  —  the  thought  of  you  will  lose  its 
keenness,  it  will  not  hurt  me  so.  And 
I  shall  get  interested  in  other  things  — 
there  are  lots  of  things  in  life  worth 
caring  for,  it  is  not  as  if  I  were  Flor 
ence  and  only  cared  for  one  —  and  so 
out  of  pain  will  come  indifference,  and 
out  of  indifference  quietness,  and  per 
haps  when  I  am  forty  I  shall  be  able  to 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         1 1 5 

look  forth  on  my  soul  and  say,  '  This  is 
the  peace  which  springs  from  righteous 
ness.'  I  dare  say  I  shall  grow  to  be  as 
great  a  Pharisee  as  that ! 

"  I  don't  like  to  contemplate  such  an 
ending.  It  would  be  easier  to  die  at 
once,  and  more  beautiful.  I  wish  I 
could  go  away  into  another  world  where 
I  could  hurt  no  one  by  cherishing  you. 
But  that  would  be  too  easy.  As  you 
said  the  other  day,  the  easy  answers 
never  are  the  right  ones. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  this  is  the  right 
one.  I  know  I  can  live  without  you, 
and  you  will  soon  forget  me,  quite.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  be  unhappy 
where  Florence  was." 

Armed  with  this  document,  which  she 
felt  settled  everything  and  would  be  as 
final  to  Roderick  as  to  herself,  Arria  set 
forth  that  afternoon  to  meet  him  where 


1 1 6         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

they  had  encountered  each  other  the 
day  before.  She  had  promised  to  do 
this  on  the  ground  that  the  situation 
demanded  candid  consideration  from  them 
both.  It  was  her  intention  to  put  the 
letter  in  his  hands  and  then  return  at 
once.  She  had  written  all  that  she 
wished  to  say.  What  he  might  say, 
she  was  resolutely  determined  not  to 
hear. 

But  Roderick  took  the  letter  and, 
having  bent  to  kiss  the  hands  that  gave 
it,  tore  it  in  two  without  so  much  as 
unfolding  it. 

"  Don't  you  suppose,"  he  demanded, 
"  that  I  know  all  that  can  possibly  be 
said  against  this?  You  cannot  tell  me 
anything  I  have  not  thought  of.  I 
know  the  arguments  by  heart,  and  they 
do  not  convince.  Now  you  must  hear 
mine." 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         117 

"  I  wish,"  cried  Arria  petulantly,  "  you 
would  type-write  those  arguments  —  or 
let  me  hear  them  blind-fold  and  from 
another  room !  Your  eyes  are  too  elo 
quent.  It  is  not  fair.  How  can  I  judge 
justly  when  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 

"  I  need  all  the  advantages  that  I 
have,"  said  Roderick  inflexibly.  "  Listen, 
Arria." 

"  You  have  no  philosophy,"  she  re 
proached  him  wildly,  "  no  fortitude." 

"  No,  thank  Heaven !  Philosophy  be 
hanged !  Life  is  a  rack  and  we  are 
stretched  upon  it  to  be  tortured.  He  is 
the  best  philosopher  who  can  say  most 
calmly  as  each  different  bone  is  dislo 
cated,  '  Ah,  here  is  a  fresh  sensation ! ' 
For  my  part  I  am  willing  not  to  be 
one,"  cried  Roderick  hotly.  "  The  only 
epitaph  I  covet  is  '  When  he  breathed, 
he  was  a  man' 


1 1 8          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  No  one  will  deny  it  to  you,  I  am 
afraid.  You  are  no  saint." 

"  It  is  not  one  of  my  ambitions.  I 
have  noticed  that  the  paths  which  lead 
to  Heaven  usually  lead  away  from  Para 
dise.  But  all  this  is  irrelevant." 

"  I  despise  you,"  she  said  desperately ; 
"but,"  relenting  as  she  saw  his  face,  "if 
somebody  had  to  come  to  despise  you, 
I  am  glad  it  is  I.  I  couldn't  bear  it,  to 
have  any  one  else  despise  you  as  I  do 
just  now." 

He  brushed  her  words   aside. 

"  Ah,  listen,  Arria,"  he  said,  and  this 
time  she  found  no  interruption. 

To  have  relieved  one's  mind  of  lofty 
sentiments  seems,  somehow,  at  certain 
crises  the  equivalent  of  a  noble  deed, 
and  produces  in  the  same  way  that  feel 
ing  of  reaction  through  which  we  descend 
painlessly  to  lower  levels. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         119 

Arria,  conscious  that  her  purpose,  at 
least,  had  satisfied  her  soul,  relaxed  her 
spiritual  tension  and  lingered.  Once  in 
every  man's  life,  it  is  given  him  to  speak 
as  if  indeed  a  coal  from  the  sacred  fire 
had  touched  his  lips.  Arria  listened  to 
Roderick's  burning  words  with  a  hun 
ger  which  grew  by  what  it  fed  upon. 
And  when  he  grew  more  daring  and 
reinforced  his  arguments  with  action, 
she  did  not  shrink  even  from  his  kisses. 

Then  she  returned  —  to  re-live  the 
conflict  of  the  night  before,  to  fight  the 
fight  with  keener  reproach,  with  yet 
more  ecstatic  joy. 


X 

» 

THE  Major  was  ill. 

"  I  can't  understand  what  the  doctor 
means,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Woolsey,  cling 
ing  to  her  daughter's  hand,  as  they 
stood  watching  the  physician's  carnage 
drive  away.  "  Yesterday  he  insisted 
upon  a  nurse,  and  to-day  he  said  some 
thing  about  nervous  prostration  and 
something  about  the  danger  of  heart- 
failure.  What  does  he  mean  ?  There  is 
nothing  seriously  wrong  with  your 
father." 

"  Darling,  he  means  papa  is  very  ill." 

"  Very  ill,  Florence  ?  " 

The  girl  bent  and  kissed  her  mother 
silently.  The  elder  woman  turned  away 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         1 2 1 

and  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  Her 
strength  failed  her,  and  she  stood  lean 
ing  against  the  rail.  How  long  the  way 
was.  Would  she  never  get  to  the  top  ? 
It  seemed  hours  since  Florence  had 
spoken.  Heart-failure  ?  What  if  he 
died  before  she  reached  him?  The 
world  reeled  darkening  at  the  thought, 
and  she  fell  back  upon  the  stair. 

Meanwhile  the  Major  lay  upon  his 
weary  bed  and  needed  no  telling  to  know 
that  the  dear,  warm  human  life  he  had 
loved  and  lived  so  carelessly  was  slip 
ping —  slipping  from  his  nerveless  fingers. 

What  a  life  it  had  been !  Keenly  his 
early  years  came  back  to  him.  The 
irresponsible  rapture  of  the  boy  in  life 
and  sport  was  his  again.  How  fine  and 
crisp  the  winters  were.  There  were  no 
such  winters  now.  What  had  been 
white-and-gold  jests  with  the  blood  of 


122          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

youth,  were  long,  chill  affronts  to  the 
slow  currents  of  later  years. 

And  what  a  green  glory  had  been 
upon  the  winter  wheat  when  May  came 
at  last,  and  the  level  sun  struck  across 
the  fields  and  turned  the  perfumed, 
whitening  orchards  into  gold ! 

He  remembered  the  joy  of  his  first 
gun,  and  the  awakening  of  the  sports 
man's  instinct  as  he  had  followed  his 
father  across  the  yellow  stubble  in  the 
ecstatic  air.  Ah,  those  were  days,  and 
that  was  life,  more  satisfying,  it  seemed 
now,  than  all  the  years  that  had  come 
between. 

In  and  out  of  all  his  recollection  ran 
the  river,  a  silver  thread  to  bind  the 
years  upon.  Only  those  who  have  lived 
beside  it  know  how  it  has  become  the 
river  of  their  love.  The  Major  had 
lived  beside  it  always. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         123 

It  was  upon  the  river,  he  remembered, 
in  a  gay  party  going  down  to  the  Point, 
that  he  had  first  met  Elizabeth,  a  stranger 
from  the  South. 

Across  the  years  that  sweet  young 
face  smiled  to  him  as  it  had  smiled  on 
the  day  of  their  meeting ;  as  it  had  done 
always  since. 

But  now  he  lay  dying,  and  she  gave 
no  sign.  Once  it  had  almost  seemed  to 
him  that  Elizabeth  was  strenuous  and 
devoted  enough  to  impose  her  opinion 
of  him  upon  the  Lord  himself.  Now 
he  wished  that  she  might  be  brought  to 
share  what  he  vaguely  believed  to  be  the 
Creator's  tolerance. 

The  Major  was  religious  after  a  fashion. 
Loyalty  to  the  Church  came  after  loy 
alty  to  the  State.  The  point  of  view 
was  hereditary  with  the  Woolseys,  and 
to  be  respected.  As  to  his  personal 


1 24          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

relations  with  the  Infinite,  he  felt  a  con 
fidence  that  He  who  made  man,  knowing 
him  but  dust,  would  overlook  his  en 
trance  into  another  life  somewhat  soiled 
with  the  grime  of  earth.  The  old  Per 
sian  had  said  it : 

"ffe's  a  Good  Fellow,  and  'twill  all  be  well.'11 
The  rough-and-ready  righteousness  of 
the  man  who  is  his  own  worst  enemy 
was  ample  cloak  for  him.  As  for  Hell, 
it  was  where  Elizabeth  had  been  keep 
ing  him  for  the  last  week.  When  he 
thought  of  it,  it  seemed  to  him  that  this, 
and  no  other  thing,  was  killing  him.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  knew  he  had  been 
warned  often  enough  to  let  stimulants 
and  nicotine  alone  —  that  his  heart  would 
not  stand  them  —  but  barring  a  few  bad 
turns  which  had  not  frightened  him  suf 
ficiently  he  had  gone  on  well  enough 
until  the  stress  of  the  other  day. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         125 

Strange !  One  might  think  it  would 
have  been  the  fragile  woman  upon  whom 
all  this  would  have  told  most  heavily.  It 
was  the  kind  of  shock  romances  said  killed 
women.  Instead,  it  was  he  whose  pulses 
were  weakening  hour  by  hour,  as  he  lay 
fretting  at  her  absence  and  her  coldness, 
while  she  remained  aloof,  unmoved. 

"She  might  forgive  a  dying  man," 
said  the  Major,  with  tears  of  self-pity  in 
his  eyes. 

While  her  husband  thought  these 
things,  Mrs.  Woolsey  sat  in  half-con 
scious  misery  upon  the  stair  until  her 
strength  came  back  to  her,  and  she 
made  her  way  to  the  little  study  at  the 
top  of  the  flight.  It  was  the  Major's 
den.  His  books  and  papers  were  there. 
His  dressing-gown,  redolent  of  tobacco, 
lay  across  the  worn  leather  chair  in 
front  of  the  desk.  There  she  sat  down 


126          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

and  putting  her  head  back  against  it, 
strove  to  think. 

She  had  been  reared  in  the  old  school 
of  theology  as  well  as  of  manners,  and  she 
believed,  not  that  the  punishment  of  a 
wasted  life  is  here  and  now,  but  that  it 
lies  in  a  dread  hereafter. 

"  He  is  not  good,  and  he  is  going  to 
die,"  she  said  slowly  to  herself.  A  dumb 
terror  stole  over  her  at  the  thought. 
How  would  it  be  with  that  poor  soul,  so 
kin  to  earth,  when  he  fared  forth  to  the 
Infinite  ?  She  realized  that  she  could 
not  imagine  her  husband  in  a  spiritual 
world,  and  a  sickening  revulsion  to  life 
and  death  alike  laid  hold  of  her.  The 
dread  of  the  Unknown  tore  her  heart. 

The  terror  which  she  felt  for  her  hus 
band  fought  with  the  resentment  that 
had  been  in  her  heart  against  him  until 
the  struggle  grew  keen  anguish. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         127 

"  O  God !  "  she  said,  "  I  cannot  bear  his 
dying  nor  his  living !  What  shall  I  do  ? 
-what  shall  I  do?"  and  then,  "O  God, 
be  merciful  to  him !  " 

But  the  God  whom  she  knew  was  a 
God  of  justice,  not  of  mercy.  Who  could 
doubt  what  decree  was  registered  in  the 
impenetrable  fastnesses  of  that  dark  Will 
against  the  man  who,  having  all  good 
gifts,  had  wasted  all,  and  faced  old  age 
a  spiritual  pauper? 

How  long  she  sat  there  numb  with  the 
horror  of  the  thought  she  did  not  know, 
but  at  last  her  soul  flamed  in  revolt.  Let 
God  be  cruel  if  he  must.  It  was  no  more 
than  just.  But  as  for  her,  in  the  few 
hours  that  remained  to  her  of  their  long 
comradeship,  she  would  be  merciful.  Jus 
tice  was  the  attribute  of  gods,  perhaps, 
but  not  of  women.  And  he,  pitiful  failure 
that  he  was,  was  yet  the  best  that  earth 


128          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

had  given  her  to  answer  to  her  young 
ideals  and  still  the  hunger  of  her  heart. 

Rising,  she  went  to  his  room.  The 
nurse  withdrew.  The  Major  and  his  wife 
faced  each  other  pallidly.  She  came  for 
ward  to  the  bed  and  knelt  down.  She 
had  meant  to  be  very  quiet,  very  calm  — 
a  scene  was  the  worst  possible  thing  for 
him — but  her  sensitive  face  quivered, 
and  her  voice  was  broken  beyond  her 
control. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  —  that  you  were 
so  ill,  Roger,"  she  stammered. 

The  Major  lay  back  upon  his  pillows 
and  regarded  her  with  the  forced  indiffer 
ence  of  exhaustion. 

"  Pray  do  not  agitate  yourself,  my  dear," 
he  said  courteously  but  feebly.  "  I  have 
already  lived  too  long  —  since  I  have  out 
lived  your  respect." 

She  caught  his  hands,  already  shrunken, 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         129 

and  her  kisses  and  her  tears  fell  upon 
them  fast.  She  spoke  words  that  he  did 
not  understand,  that  he  was  too  weak  to 
try  to  understand,  but  among  her  con 
fused  and  tender  murmurs,  this  was  clear : 
"  But  not  my  love  .  .  .  but  not  my 
love  !  " 


XI 

RODERICK  KIRKE  had  gone  through  life 
easily  and  uprightly.  He  did  not  think 
overmuch  about  himself,  but  he  had 
always  had  a  clear  conviction  that  he  was 
a  little  too  fine  to  be  conformed  to  all  the 
manners  and  customs  of  this  wicked 
earth.  His  absorptions  in  life  were  chiefly 
intellectual  and  aesthetic.  Things  vicious 
and  vulgar  repelled  him  because  they 
were  not  sufficiently  interesting  to  coun 
terbalance  their  lack  of  beauty.  Tem 
perament  had  served  him  in  the  stead  of 
character,  and  it  was  his  tacit  assumption 
that  in  conduct  he  would  always  choose 
the  higher  course  because  he  was  himself. 

He  had  seen  men  caught  in  the  whirl- 
130 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         1 3 1 

wind  of  passionate  emotion,  and  had 
noted  curiously  that  it  seemed  to  make 
no  difference  to  them  whether  they  were 
victims  to  righteous  or  unrighteous  loves. 
Personally,  he  believed  the  ethical  ele 
ment  necessary  to  the  beauty  of  love,  and 
failed  even  to  conceive  of  the  possible 
supremacy  over  himself  of  a  feeling  which 
did  not  satisfy  his  sense  of  honour. 

Sharp  across  these  pleasing  precon 
ceptions  swept  the  first  vital  emotion  of 
his  self-centred  life,  making  such  havoc 
as  the  hail  makes  in  May  among  the 
apple-blooms.  He  too  was  in  the  net. 
How  it  had'  happened  he  did  not  know. 
The  great  affections  offer  no  explanation 
of  themselves.  Theirs  is  the  simple  "  I 
am  "  of  Jehovah. 

He  was  honest  in  his  resolve  to  say 
nothing,  but  did  a  strong  love  ever  yet 
remain  untold  ?  Circumstances  league 


132          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

themselves  against  silence.  All  life  is 
on  the  side  of  speech.  The  voice  of 
honour  grows  faint  and  far  away.  Nearer, 
sweeter,  stronger  voices  drown  its  pro 
test.  "  Have  I  not  a  right  to  my  own  ? " 
asks  the  rebellious  heart,  and  Nature  an 
swers  "  Yes." 

But  after  a  life-time  spent  in  cultivat 
ing  a  sense  of  duty  in  its  more  im 
aginative  aspects,  one  does  not  revert 
to  a  cruder  standard  without  difficulty. 
Therefore  the  two  days  following  his 
interview  with  Arria  were  spent  by 
Roderick  Kirke  in  hell. 

There  is  one  hell  of  half-hearted 
struggle  which  has  but  a  single  pre 
destined  end,  and  another  of  mute  ac 
quiescence  in  a  situation  whose  ignominy 
the  vanquished  one  feels  as  the  victim 
of  the  inquisition  felt  in  his  flesh  the 
spikes  of  the  Iron  Maid.  The  second  of 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         133 

these  is  the  deeper  damnation,  and  Rod 
erick  experienced  its  full  bitterness. 

The  reflection  that  his  self-scorn  was 
part  of  the  price  due  to  destiny  for  the 
terrifying  sweetness  of  this  masterful 
emotion  helped  him  to  bear  it,  but  such 
alleviation  was  not  great. 

Satiety  in  suffering  comes  soon  to  the 
vigorous.  At  the  end  of  two  days  Rod 
erick  fek  a  brief  reaction.  It  was  time 
that  he  did  something,  even  though  ac 
tion  were  ignoble.  The  process  of  put 
ting  an  end  to  his  engagement  could 
hardly  be  more  intolerable  than  the 
present  situation. 

"  In  the  morning,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  I  will  go  to  Florence,"  and  rested  in 
that  decision. 

The  morning,  when  it  dawned,  proved 
to  usher  in  one  of  those  incomparable 
days  of  early  September  which  seem  to 


1 34          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

hallow  all  deeds  done  in  them.  Under 
its  influence  Roderick  went  down  to 
his  breakfast  in  a  frame  of  mind  which 
was  comparatively  cheerful.  Perhaps  the 
situation  was  not  so  tragic  as  he  had 
supposed. 

But  just  at  the  close  of  the  meal  a 
note  was  brought  to  him. 

"  DEAR  RODERICK  :  Do  you  know  you  have  not  seen 
us  for  three  days  ?  My  father  is  ill.  I  have  not 
dared  to  tell  my  mother  how  ill  he  is.  I  am  fright 
ened —  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

"  FLORENCE." 

He  stared  at  the  words  protestingly. 

"O  God!"  he  said  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  grasped  the  full  significance  of  the 
situation.  His  mother,  glancing  up,  caught 
such  a  look  of  misery  upon  his  face  that 
for  the  moment  she  believed  herself 
dreaming.  Who  had  ever  seen  Roderick 
look  like  that? 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         135 

"  Did  you  speak  ?  What  is  the  mat 
ter  ?  "  she  inquired. 

He  handed  her  the  note. 

"  Florence  is  in  trouble.  I  must  go 
over  there,"  he  said  heavily. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  girl !  I  wish  I  could 
do  something.  Pray  go  to  her  at  once," 
the  mother  urged.  But  when  he  had 
left  her  it  was  not  over  her  neighbour's 
troubles  that  she  knit  her  forehead  anx 
iously. 

"  The  Major  has  outlived  the  comeli 
ness  of  his  life,  and  even  Florence's 
trouble  would  not  make  Roderick  look 
like  that?  she  said.  "  My  son  suffers, 
and  I  can  neither  know  nor  help,"  and 
the  blinding,  bitter  tears  of  a  mother's 
ignorance  and  helplessness  came  slowly 
to  her  eyes. 

Roderick  meanwhile  had  gone  away 
sick  at  heart.  There  are  limits  even  to 


136          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

the  healthy  fundamental  selfishness  of 
youth  and  love.  The  difficult  task  had 
become  impossible.  He  could  not  with 
hold  from  this  daughter  of  a  dying  father 
the  help  which  she  sought  as  her  right. 

Through  the  days  that  followed  he 
found  many  things  to  do  at  Rosehedges. 
In  those  sharp  hours  when  the  proximity 
of  death  draws  closer  together  the  souls 
who  must  remain,  no  claim  upon  our 
human  tenderness  is  lightly  disallowed. 
Scorning  himself  for  a  hypocrite,  yet 
longing  to  help  the  two  women  in  their 
necessity,  Roderick  made  himself  helpful, 
tender,  strong,  for  the  day  of  need.  It 
was  to  be  done,  but  he  never  afterwards 
remembered  just  how  he  had  accomplished 
it.  The  days  were  dreamlike  and  indis 
tinct  to  him  even  as  he  moved  through 
them.  One  recollection  only,  of  all  that 
time,  possessed  vividness  and  coherence. 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         137 

He  had  prevailed  upon  Mrs.  Woolsey, 
who  was  nervous  and  exhausted,  to  go 
out  with  him  that  morning  for  the  air 
and  sunshine  that  she  needed.  The  car 
riage  had  come  to  the  door,  and  he  was 
awaiting  her  in  the  morning-room,  when 
Arria,  not  knowing  any  one  was  there, 
entered,  singing  softly  to  herself  as  she 
came. 

Roderick  had  seen  nothing  of  her  dur 
ing  the  Major's  illness,  and  the  sight  of 
her  now  suddenly  dispelled  the  clouds 
that  had  been  about  him.  He  came  for 
ward  silently  with  outstretched  hands,  re 
membering  only  his  need  of  her.  She 
looked  at  him  an  instant  and  drew  back. 
Her  glance  was  visionary  and  remote,  as 
if  she  were  looking  from  another  world. 
His  own  eyes  were  dogged,  defiant,  yet 
beseeching,  and  his  face  was  not  hard  to 
read. 


1 38          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  Do  you  find,"  she  said  very  gently, 
"  that  engagements  seem  as  easy  to  break 
as  they  once  did  ?  " 

He  bent  his  head  an  instant  without 
replying.  It  was  her  privilege  to  be 
ironic  if  she  found  comfort  so.  He  found 
no  comfort  anywhere,  but  that  did  not 
matter.  Nothing  mattered  any  longer, 
since  in  the  coil  life  had  made  around 
him  he  could  no  longer  pretend  to  stand 
erect. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  said  at  last,  "that 
I  love  you  less  because  I  serve  her  more  ? 
Or  that  I  should  not  be  glad  to  keep  my 
self-respect,  —  if  I  could  ?  It  is  not  nec 
essary  for  you  to  torture  me  to  make 
me  understand  my  position !  " 

She  made  a  gesture  of  bewildered  pro 
test. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  she  said,  "that  is 
not  what  I  meant  at  all.  I  never  thought 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         139 

of  reproaching  you.  It  is  only  that  — 
that  I  wanted  you  to  confess  how  impos 
sible  —  anything  is,  for  you  and  me. 
Surely  now  you  must  see  it  as  I  see  it." 

"  You  '  only  want '  me  to  surrender  both 
my  love  and  my  self-respect !  It  will  go 
hard  if  I  do  not  keep  one  of  them !  " 

"  That  is  impossible,"  she  said  hastily. 

"  Nothing  is  impossible.  I  am  willing 
to  pay  the  price.  See  here,"  and  he 
caught  her  roughly  by  the  wrists,  "  if  you 
say  the  word,  I  am  ready,  —  ready,  do 
you  understand?  —  to  tell  her  now,  this 
hour,  that  I  can  never  marry  her.  Do 
you  wish  it?  Shall  I  do  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ! "  she  cried  again. 
"  What  a  selfish,  brutal,  hideous  idea !  " 

"Then  —  what  do  you  want?" 

Arria  looked  at  him  helplessly.  That 
men  were  restive  and  impracticable  when 
most  it  behooved  them  to  be  strong  and 


140         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

controlled  had  not  been  one  of  her  pre 
conceptions  about  them.  Recognizing 
the  fact,  she  bent  before  it,  perceiving 
that  she  had  expected  the  impossible. 

"  You  are  not  treating  me  well,"  he 
went  on,  harshly,  as  it  seemed  to  her. 

"  Men  always  say  that  when  they  are 
behaving  badly,"  cried  the  girl,  general 
izing  from  the  instance  before  her  in 
self-defence.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  by  treating  you  well.  I  am  trying 
to  help  you  do  what  you  ought  to  do. 
I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you." 

He  envisaged  her  dumbly,  and  in  his 
face  she  read  all  the  pain  and  passion, 
the  revolt,  and  shame,  and  longing,  of 
his  soul  so  clearly  that  it  silenced  her. 

When  she  spoke  again  it  was  uncer 
tainly  and  with  timidity. 

"Does  it  —  does  it  make  it  any  easier 
for  you  to  know  that  I  think  the  way  you 
comfort  Florence  is  —  is  adorable  ?  " 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         141 

"  No.     It  does  not  make  it  any  easier." 

"  Is  —  is  there  anything  that  I  can 
say—" 

Ah,  those  beseeching  eyes ! 

"  But  this  is  so  selfish ! "  she  protested 
faintly. 

"  So  selfish  —  and  so  beautiful,"  said 
Roderick,  as  he  drew  her  face  to  his. 

She  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  turned  quickly  to  leave  the  room. 
Mrs.  Woolsey  was  descending  the  stairs, 
and  Arria  heard  her  step  thankfully. 
Obviously,  further  interviews  between 
herself  and  Roderick  were  out  of  the 
question  if  they  were  always  to  end  in 
this  way. 

"  It  does  not  seem,"  she  said  to  herself 
wearily,  as  she  climbed  the  stairs,  "  to  be 
of  the  slightest  use  to  reason  with  a  man. 
Perhaps  it  isn't  any  use  to  reason  with 
myself." 


142          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

As  she  passed  her  cousin's  door,  Flor 
ence  called  to  her.  She  was  lying  down, 
but  lifted  her  head  as  Arria  entered. 

"  Roderick  was  there,  wasn't  he  ?  "  she 
said.  "  I  knew  he  had  entered  the  house, 
though  I  don't  know  how  I  knew  it.  I 
hope  Providence  is  laying  up  a  reward 
for  Roderick.  May  Heaven  particularly 
bless  him !  Arria,  I  should  die  these 
days  if  it  were  not  for  him,"  and  Florence 
sat  upright  and  tossed  her  tumbled  hair 
from  her  forehead  restlessly.  "  Life  looks 
incomprehensible  to  me.  It  seems  futile 
and  disgraceful,  a  long  humiliation  grow 
ing  bitterer  year  by  year,  ending  at  last 
—  who  knows? — perhaps  in  extinction. 
I  should  want  to  be  done  with  it  at 
once  if  it  were  not  for  Roderick  and  the 
things  I  can't  help  believing  in  when  I 
am  with  him.  I  believe  in  him  most  of 
all.  I  am  irreverent,  I  suppose,  but  I 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         143 

sometimes  wonder  if  the  religious  people 
—  the  real  ones  like  my  mother — get  as 
much  consolation  out  of  their  belief  in 
God." 

"  He  does  not  make  me  feel  things 
like  that,"  said  Arria,  looking  down  at 
her  with  a  playfulness  that  was  obvious 
and  a  seriousness  that  was  hidden. 

"  Is  that  an  intimation  that  my  feelings 
about  Roderick  depend  upon  subjective 
causes  ?  "  asked  Florence.  "  My  precious 
child,  what  difference  does  it  make? 
They  constitute  the  most  beautiful  ex 
perience  in  my  life,  and  I  don't  know 
whence  it  comes.  What  if  I  may  per 
haps  have  attributed  to  him  more  virtues 
than  he  has  ?  Other  people  cannot  make 
me  think  them  more  beautiful  than  they 
are.  It  is  all  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 
I  am  happy  —  and  it  is  Roderick  who 
makes  me  so !  " 


XII 

THE  days  went  slowly  by.  Weakening 
steadily,  the  Major  lingered  through  the 
golden  September  weather,  as  if  loath  to 
leave  such  a  beautiful  and  seductive 
world,  until  at  last  the  hour  came  when 
he  could  stay  no  longer. 

The  hush  of  death  wrapped  the  house, 
and  then,  as  even  that  stillness  must,  gave 
way  before  the  encroaching  stir  of  life. 

There  were  plans  to  be  made,  business 
to  be  transacted.  A  thousand  cares  and 
questions  broke  their  life.  Through  all 
the  chequered  days  Roderick  remained 
Mrs.  Woolsey's  right  hand,  and  Arria 
avoided  him  with  an  almost  prayerful 
conscientiousness. 

144 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         145 

Death  is  an  experience  only  less  great 
to  those  who  remain  than  to  those  who 
go.  In  those  unreal  days  of  its  presence, 
which  yet  seemed  to  hold  Earth's  only 
verity,  Arria,  exhausted  in  body,  but  ex 
alted  in  spirit,  laid  hold,  or  thought  she 
did,  upon  reality. 

She  had  gone  out  in  the  early  morn 
ing  when  the  air  was  cool  and  the 
sun  was  shining  through  the  diminished 
screen  of  ripening  leaves,  and  made  her 
way  down  across  the  thick  undergrowth 
of  shrubbery  which  had  been  allowed  to 
climb  up  the  bluff  at  its  own  will,  until 
she  came  to  a  quiet  corner  where  she 
had  often  been  before.  The  river  was  in 
sight,  and  beyond  it  the  hills,, 

She  was  harassed,  perplexed,  sad.  That 
careless  self-confidence  with  which  she 
began  the  summer  had  quite  vanished 
now.  The  world  loomed  before  her, 


146          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

great,  difficult,  cruel.  What  did  it  all 
mean  ?  And  what  was  she  to  do  with 
her  poignant  share  of  the  tangles  ex 
istence  had  made  for  her?  Was  life 
indeed,  as  Florence  had  said,  futile  and 
disgraceful,  a  slow  descent  from  the 
heights  of  youth  down  a  rough,  shame 
ful,  ever^darkening  road  ?  Did  one  cher 
ish  ideals  only  to  relinquish  them  ?  Was 
it  meant  that  each  soul  should  seek  and 
take  its  own  though  at  another's  cost? 
Was  she  like  all  the  rest?  Daily,  re 
nouncement  grew  more  difficult.  Should 
she  succumb  at  last? 

Oh,  no!  She  laughed  at  the  thought 
What  did  a  few  failures  prove,  or  even 
the  failure  of  all  mankind  ?  With  the 
morning  sun  upon  the  world,  and  the 
crisp  air  that  prophesied  of  frost  against 
her  cheeks,  she  found  a  better  answer. 
She  saw  as  she  had  never  seen  before 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         147 

the  verity  of  the  axiom  that  life  is  a 
struggle.  Some  must  succeed  in  the  con 
flict.  To  accept  life  as  it  seems  to  be, 
to  take  the  destiny  thrust  upon  us,  to 
yield  to  the  outer  world,  is  to  cease  to 
live.  Surely  the  immortal  armies  are 
made  up  of  those  who  have  refused  to 
become  plastic  in  the  grasp  of  an  ex 
perience  which  would  destroy  their  visions 
of  life  and  character. 

Oh,  kind,  brave,  friendly  world  !  It  is 
good  to  fight.  The  breath  of  life  is 
sweeter  on  our  lips,  existence  is  more 
serious,  even  more  noble,  when  we  see  that 
it  is  warfare.  We  may  war  under  false 
banners,  but  it  is  essential  that  we  fight. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
conscious  of  the  slackening  of  that  de 
mand  for  personal  happiness  which  is  the 
slogan  of  the  very  young.  Happiness 
seemed  for  the  moment  of  less  value  than 


148          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

steadfastness  in  whatever  road  she  should 
mark  out  to  travel. 

Across  her  soul  there  came  with  a  rush 
of  tender  reminiscence  of  that  mother, 
never  so  well  understood  as  in  this  hour, 
the  words  of  one  of  those  serene,  chill 
precepts  she  had  heard  so  often  in  her 
earliest  years. 

"Unhappy  am  I  because  this  has  hap 
pened  to  me?  Not  so,  bitt  happy  am  1 
though  this  has  happened  to  me  .  .  . 
neither  crushed  by  the  present  nor  fearing 
the  future^ 

And  what  was  that  other  sunnier  say 
ing  ?  Ah,  yes,  she  remembered. 

"Everything  is  fruit  to  me  which  thy 
seasons  bring,  O  Nature !  " 

"  My  mother  knew,"  said  Arria  to  her 
self.  "  It  is  the  only  way  to  live.  We 
are  here  to  suffer  —  and  to  say  we  do  not 
suffer,  because  suffering  is  worth  while." 


T/ic  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         149 

She  bent  her  head  in  the  consciousness 
of  that  deep  turning  of  the  will  which  is 
more  an  action  than  a  prayer.  "  Dear 
God,"  she  said,  "  since  I  have  chosen  not 
to  be  happy,  let  me  be  a  little  good." 

When  at  last  she  rose  to  return  to  the 
house,  it  was  with  a  curious  exultation  in 
her  soul  and  her  head  full  of  plans  for  the 
future. 

Difficult  as  was  rationality  in  her  own 
person,  it  was  nothing  compared  to  the  task 
of  making  Roderick  reasonable.  Reluc 
tantly  she  renounced  the  effort.  It  would 
be  very  beautiful  to  know  that  he  saw  the 
situation  as  she  saw  it.  The  heights  of  re 
nunciation  are  chilling  and  difficult  to  one 
who  climbs  them  uncompanioned.  But 
her  expostulations  with  him  in  the  past 
had  all  terminated  in  one  way,  and  she 
had  no  reason  to  expect  that  a  different 
fortune  would  attend  any  fresh  attempts. 


1 50         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"  But  three  kisses  are  not  very  many 
when  that  is  all  one  is  ever  going  to  take. 
I  think  even  Florence  might  forgive  me 
those  if  she  knew.  Three  times  —  or  was 
it  four  ?  —  in  a  whole  life  !  "  thought  Arria. 

The  conversion  of  Roderick  being 
hopelessly  out  of  the  question,  the 
only  thing  left  for  her  to  do  was  to  go 
away.  Her  course  was  simplified  by  the 
fact  that  the  Major's  will,  made  several 
years  before,  left  her  an  income  of  a 
thousand  dollars,  which,  added  to  her 
own,  made  her  a  young  person  of  inde 
pendent  means.  In  the  scholastic  world, 
which  she  purposed  to  re-enter,  fifteen 
hundred  a  year  is  a  very  decent  income. 

Her  old  enthusiasm  for  the  scholar's 
existence,  simple,  refined,  and  strenuous 
as  it  is,  revived  as  she  laid  her  plans, 
which  called  for  two  or  three  years  of 
foreign  study  and  the  attainment  of  a 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         151 

doctor's  degree  as  a  preliminary  step. 
The  intellectual  life  looked  a  haven  of 
refuge  after  the  stress  of  the  last  few 
months.  In  it  was  safety,  security,  peace. 
"  I  think  it  must  require  a  very  wise, 
strong  person  to  love  and  be  loved  as  it 
should  be  done,"  thought  the  girl  deject 
edly —  "somebody  wiser  than  I,  at  least. 
I  am  too  stupid  for  anything  but  scholar 
ship.  It  is  far  better  that  I  should  go 
back  to  it." 


XIII 

"  BUT  you  must  not  go  away  from  us, 
dear,"  protested  Mrs.  Woolsey  tenderly. 
"  I  cannot  think  your  uncle  would  have 
approved." 

She  said  this  with  an  air  of  finality. 
Love  and  death,  the  arch-deceivers,  had 
combined  to  beguile  her  into  forgetfulness 
of  those  bitter  days  when  her  idol  had 
tottered  to  its  fall.  The  Major's  opinion 
was  now,  as  formerly,  the  ultimate  au 
thority. 

"  If  you  needed  me,"  said  Arria,  "  if " 
—  rather  forlornly  —  "any  one  needed  me, 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  stay.  But  no 
one  does.  And  we  must  all  live  our  own 
lives,  you  know." 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         153 

Mrs.  Woolsey  did  not  know.  The 
sentiment  had  not  been  current  when 
she  was  twenty-two.  When  it  was  stated 
as  a  self-evident  truth,  however,  she  felt 
unequal  to  disproving  it. 

"  You  are  too  young,"  she  urged,  "  to 
be  so  far  away  from  your  natural 
guardians.  I  can't  think  of  you  alone 
in  a  foreign  city  with  only  another  girl 
of  your  own  age  for  a  companion.  It  is 
impossible,  dear  child." 

"  But  people  do  it  every  day.  It  is 
different  when  you  are  known  to  be  a 
student  And  I  must  go." 

However  often  this  conversation  was 
repeated,  and  for  a  time  it  was  a  daily 
dialogue  between  Arria  and  her  aunt, 
the  end  was  always  the  same.  The  de 
cisive,  yet  despairing  ring  of  the  girl's 
voice  as  she  urged  that  she  must  go  was 
not  an  argument.  Yet  it  finally  prevailed 


154         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

to  win  a  reluctant  and  unconvinced  recog 
nition  of  her  freedom  to  do  as  she  saw 
fit.  Mrs.  Woolsey  was  too  just  —  or  too 
gentle  —  to  reproach  her  niece  for  being 
a  modern  girl,  but  she  could  and  did 
reproach  modern  life  for  the  untoward 
tendencies  which  spoiled  a  young  person 
who  was  otherwise  fitted  to  have  graced 
the  ranks  of  girlhood  in  a  less  perverse 
generation. 

The  theory  that  we  must  all  live 
our  own  lives  was  one  which  Florence 
comprehended  better  than  her  mother 
could. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  think  the  dear 
Lord  intended  you  to  live  that  sort  of 
life,"  she  said  with  conviction.  "  I  am 
so  sure  of  it  I  might  almost  say  I  am 
in  his  confidence  on  the  point.  You  are 
too  essentially  attractive  to  sacrifice  your 
heart  to  your  head.  Still,  if  you  must 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         155 

make  the  experiment,  you  must.  But  I 
prophesy  it  will  not  succeed." 

"  My  —  other  experiment  did  not  suc 
ceed,"  said  Arria.  "  I  cannot  fail  always, 
in  everything." 

Florence  hesitated.  The  broken  en 
gagement  had  been  lost  sight  of  in  the 
stress  of  the  Major's  illness,  and  the  two 
girls  had  never  discussed  the  situation 
freely. 

"  Your  other  experiment  was  prelimi 
nary,"  Florence  now  said  slowly.  "  The 
first  venture  of  a  thinking  being  —  and 
you  are  too  much  of  one — into  the 
emotional  world  is  seldom  a  success. 
The  next  time  your  fortune  will  be 
happier.  The  world  professes  to  dis 
believe  it,  but  feeling  is  an  acquired 
taste  for  those  whose  minds  have  been 
trained  while  their  hearts  are  idle.  But, 
like  all  such  tastes,  it  is  strong  when 


156          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

once  obtained.  Have  you  seen  Mr. 
Sefton  since  ? " 

"  No,"  murmured  Arria  guiltily.  "  I 
was  afraid  he  would  be  too  impressive  a 
spectacle.  And  it  was  not  necessary. 
He  has  only  been  here  to  make  inquiries 
about  you  and  Aunt  Elizabeth.  I  should 
like  to  thank  him  for  his  solicitude,  his 
desire  to  do  something  for  you,  but  on 
my  own  account  I  would  rather  not  see 
him." 

"  You  must  have  treated  him  very 
badly,"  mused  Florence. 

"  I  was  brutal,"  confessed  Arria  de 
jectedly. 

"  Irreparable  brutality  is  an  unpleasant 
thing  to  remember,"  said  Florence.  "  I 
am  glad  you  are  going  to  that  friend  of 
yours,  where  there  will  be  nothing  to 
remind  you  of  your  worries.  You  are 
pale  and  thin.  I  asked  Roderick  if  he 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         157 

didn't  think  so,  and  he  said  he  had  not 
seen  you  for  so  long  he  did  not  know. 
I  am  afraid "  —  she  took  her  cousin's 
hand  affectionately  —  "  that  in  my  own 
troubles  I  have  forgotten  to  look  after 
you.  If  I  have  been  selfish,  you  must 
forgive  me,  dear." 

It  was  true  that  Roderick  had  not  seen 
Arria.  She  had  avoided  him  pertina 
ciously,  but  such  a  condition  of  things 
could  not  last,  and,  recognizing  its  pre- 
cariousness,  Arria  resolved  to  forestall 
the  end.  It  was  now  October,  and  Flor 
ence  and  Mrs.  Woolsey  were  about  to 
leave  Rosehedges  for  two  or  three  brac 
ing  weeks  in  the  quietest  village  the 
Green  Mountains  afford.  Arria  had 
planned  to  go  instead  to  a  friend  in 
New  Hampshire,  and  afterwards,  as  soon 
as  might  be,  she  proposed  to  join  a  school 
mate  who  was  studying  in  Germany. 


158          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

Roderick  heard  these  plans  at  second 
hand  from  Florence  with  deepening  im 
patience  and  resentment.  Why  did  not 
Arria  let  him  talk  to  her?  He  could 
take  no  decisive  step  involving  both  of 
them  without  seeing  her.  The  false  posi 
tion  in  which  he  stood  was  wearing  upon 
him  perceptibly.  His  nerves  were  be 
coming  fiddle-strings,  and  even  Florence, 
to  whom  he  had  striven  to  show  only 
his  old  debonair  serenity,  complained  of 
his  fitful  moods. 

When  Florence  asked  what  he  thought 
of  Arria's  intentions,  he  responded  that 
they  were  grotesque;  that  she  was  about 
as  well  adapted  to  the  voluntary  abnega 
tion,  loneliness,  and  hard  work  of  the 
scholar's  life  as  a  South  Sea  Islander  to 
an  Arctic  winter;  she  had  cleverness, 
doubtless,  but  not  more  than  was  needed 
in  the  performance  of  the  ordinary,  duties 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         159 

of  feminine  existence,  and  that  she  would 
show  better  judgment  if  she  confined  her 
self  to  the  latter. 

This  outburst,  of  which  he  was  rather 
ashamed,  was  a  momentary  relief.  After 
it  he  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Arria  demand 
ing  an  interview  peremptorily. 

He  was  compelled  to  go  to  New  York 
the  following  day  upon  some  business  he 
had  volunteered  to  arrange  for  Mrs.  Wool- 
sey,  and  was  detained  two  days.  Return 
ing,  he  found  upon  his  desk  a  letter  in 
Arria's  hand,  posted  in  a  New  Hamp 
shire  village. 

She  had  striven  hard  to  make  it  brief, 
but  without  success.  It  seemed  that  the 
making  of  a  dictionary  would  be  but  a 
slight  task  compared  to  compressing  into 
three  pages  of  letter-paper  the  thousand 
things  that  burningly  demanded  to  be 
said  to  him.  Also,  it  is  a  difficult  thing 


160         The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

to  utter  only  words  of  wisdom  when  one 
is  longing  to  speak  those  of  tenderness. 
The  letter  appeared  cold  and  stiff  to  her 
when  finished,  and  she  shed  tears  over 
it,  marvelling  how  anything  written  in 
her  heart's  blood  could  be  so  pale. 
This  was  what  she  wrote : 

"  MY  DEAR  RODERICK  :  I  have  no  intention  of 
seeing  you  at  present.  I  do  not  care  to  see  you.  I 
am  more  than  contented  not  to  see  you.  Is  this 
definite  enough?  Your  note  asked  for  something 
definite. 

"  I  think  Florence  will  take  her  mother  to  the 
Carolinas  after  they  come  back  from  the  mountains, 
and  I  hope  you  will  follow  them  there.  I  am  tired, 
and  they  do  not  need  me.  I  have  come  to  a  school 
friend  for  awhile.  I  have  learned  so  much  about  life 
this  summer  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  I  should 
take  a  rest  from  living  and  have  time  to  think  it  over. 

"  My  friend  is  a  happy  soul  who  lives  in  peace  and 
sunshine  among  her  books,  writes  little  songs,  and  re 
gards  this  world  as  a  Paradise.  I  think  of  a  fly  in 
amber  when  I  see  her.  I  shall  not  stay  here  long. 
Her  atmosphere  is  too  sweet  for  me.  I  like  the 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         161 

world,  —  the  real  world,  where  the  Flesh  and  the 
Devil  walk  ravening,  and  the  soul  rights  blindly  be 
tween  them,  —  better  than  any  imitation  heaven. 
There  will  be  time  enough  to  be  contented  after 
we  get  to  the  real  one,  if  we  do.  Meanwhile  I  like 
the  discontent,  the  things  that  hurt,  if  hurt  they 
must,  the  hard  work,  the  uncertainty,  the  unhappi- 
ness  even, —  all  the  things  that  we  suppose  distin 
guish  this  world  from  the  next.  Life  is  glorious, — 
even  when  it  isn't. 

"As  for  my  plans,  I  am  going  to  take  refuge  in 
the  intellectual  world  (where  you  once  told  me  I  be 
longed)  from  the  stress  of  an  emotional  life  which  is 
too  much  for  me.  I  shall  find  a  great  many  things 
to  do,  and  working  I  shall  forget  the  things  I  ought 
never  to  have  known. 

"  And  yet,  for  teaching  me  I  thank  you.  I  thank 
God  daily  that  I  have  seen  the  face  of  love.  Though 
I  fought  against  believing  it,  my  mother  was  right. 
Non  dolet  is  the  seal  with  which  we  must  sign  all 
earthly  experiences.  It  does  not  hurt  —  it  never 
hurts  —  to  know. 

"  And  so,  good-by.     This  is  final,  you  know. 

"ARRIA  JAMES." 

The  young  man  put  the  letter  down 
upon  the  desk  and  eyed  it  drearily. 


1 62          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

He  was  tired  too.  The  intolerable 
strain  of  the  situation  had  told  upon 
him,  and  he  was  ready  to  pay  heavily 
for  peace,  let  it  arrive  in  what  shape  it 
might. 

What  came  next  ?  Should  he  follow 
Arria  and  extort  from  her  heart,  as  he 
believed  he  might,  unwilling  and  em 
bittered  concessions  which  her  spirit  did 
not,  and  never  would  endorse  ?  With 
all  her  philosophy,  she  was  a  woman, 
and  therefore  could  be  convinced,  mo 
mentarily  at  least,  that  there  is  no  logic 
but  love's  own.  Or  should  he  accept 
the  situation  as  it  was,  and  gather  from 
the  wreck  such  salvage  as  he  could : 
item,  one  much  bruised  but  still  service 
able  sense  of  honour ;  item,  a  wife  who 
was  one  of  the  most  piquant  and  inter 
esting  women  in  the  world. 

Either  course  looked   for  the    moment 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         163 

equally  cheerless  and  distasteful.  In  his 
depressed  mood  the  whole  situation 
seemed  squalid,  and  the  best  happiness 
he  dared  hope  for  looked  insufficient  to 
compensate  for  the  torment  already 
suffered. 

He  picked  the  letter  up  and  turned  it 
over.  The  low  autumn  sun  came  out 
just  then  and  sent  a  ray  full  across  the 
page,  blurring  his  sight.  The  last  sen 
tence  "  This  is  final,"  seemed  to  detach 
itself  from  the  sheet  and  danced  fantas 
tically  before  his  weary  eyes  in  the 
strong  yellow  radiance. 

"  So  be  it,  then,"  he  said,  with  one 
long  breath,  and  his  head  fell  upon  his 
hands. 


XIV 

So  the  summer  was  over  at  last. 

The  cab  made  its  tortuous  way  through 
the  crowded  streets,  and  the  girl  within 
it  looked  out  at  the  squalid  procession 
of  the  city's  life  with  unheeding  eyes. 
She  was  thinking  how  curious  a  thing 
it  is  that  by  an  effort  of  the  will,  we 
mortals,  puny  and  irresolute  as  we  are, 
can  actually  bring  things  to  pass.  It 
seemed  strange  and  unreal  that  she 
should  be  on  her  way  to  the  steamer, 
about  to  sail  for  Europe,  leaving  behind 
her  the  people  who  in  the  last  six 
months  had  made  life  so  vivid  to  her 
that  all  the  rest  of  her  years  seemed 
remote  and  pale  by  comparison.  Yet 
164 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         165 

she  had  willed  to  leave  them,  and  her 
frail  resolve  was  about  to  become  reality. 

At  this  point  her  musings  were  inter 
rupted.  The  cabman  drove  upon  the 
dock,  announced  that  he  could  go  no 
further,  and  demanded  two  dollars. 
Arria  remembered  distinctly  that  a  car 
riage  to  the  steamer  had  been  one  of 
the  items  on  the  hotel  bill  she  had  just 
paid,  and  fumbled  in  her  chatelaine  bag 
to  find  the  receipted  account.  The  cab 
man  waxed  abusive  and  loud-voiced,  while 
Arria's  cheeks  grew  hot.  Certainly  the 
bill  was  there,  but  it  eluded  her  fingers. 

People  jostled  her  in  passing  as  she 
stood  there.  A  pair  of  snorting  horses 
almost  ran  her  down.  The  din  grew 
confusing.  Would  she  never  find  that 
bill? 

"  Good-morning,"  said  a  man  at  her 
elbow,  lifting  his  hat.  She  turned  with 


1 66          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

a  start  to  recognize  Mr.  Sefton.  His  very 
existence  had  passed  out  of  her  mind  in 
the  last  few  weeks,  but  she  was  none 
the  less  glad  to  see  him  in  this  small 
emergency,  which  he  seemed  to  under 
stand  by  intuition.  He  assumed  control 
of  the  situation  forthwith.  The  cabman 
was  disposed  of,  and  Arria  found  herself 
and  her  belongings  transferred  to  the 
steamer's  deck  without  loss  of  time. 

"  Mrs.  Woolsey  wrote  me  from  Aiken 
the  date  of  your  sailing,"  he  explained,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  voice  which  made  the 
relations  of  sentiment  between  them  seem 
infinitely  remote,  and  put  Arria  at  her 
ease  at  once.  "  Are  you  sure  that  you 
have  everything  you  need?  Rugs  enough, 
and  all  that?  Where  are  the  people  you 
are  with  ?  You  are  not  crossing  alone, 
surely  ? " 

"  Oh,  no.     There  is  one  of  Aunt  Eliza- 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         167 

beth's  friends  on  board.  I  am  to  share 
her  stateroom,  and  she  has  promised  to 
take  care  of  me.  A  friend  of  my  own 
is  to  meet  me  on  the  other  side.  Aunt 
Elizabeth  would  not  let  me  go  under  any 
other  conditions  and  disapproved  of  these. 
I  just  had  to  accept  her  disapproval,  as  one 
does  bad  weather  or  any  natural  phenom 
enon.  She  cannot  help  disapproving." 

"  You  are  going  in  for  a  career,  I 
understand." 

Arria  frowned. 

"  Career  is  such  a  vulgar,  pretentious 
sort  of  word,"  she  said  with  deprecation. 
"  All  I  want  is  —  something  to  do." 

The  man  looked  down  at  her  with 
kindly,  impenetrable  eyes. 

"  Ah !  I  hope  you  will  get  what  you 
want,"  he  said  quietly.  "  But  your  de 
mands  are  not  as  modest  as  perhaps  you 
think  them." 


1 68          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

The  girl  looked  puzzled. 

"  They  say  there  is  not  happiness 
enough  to  go  around,"  she  said,  "  but 
surely  work  is  different.  There  must  be 
enough  of  that." 

"  Congenial  work,  labour  that  is  really 
fitted  to  our  needs  and  our  ability,  is  the 
second  in  rank  of  earth's  great  blessings, 
and  it  is  almost  as  rare  as  the  first." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that,"  said  Arria  posi 
tively.  "  You  must  be  mistaken.  I  am 
sure  I  am  right.  There  is  work  for  every 
body.  There  is  some  for  me,  and  I  am 
going  to  find  it." 

"You  — are  young." 

"  What  do  you  —  what  does  everybody 
mean  by  saying  that?  What  is  it  to  be 
young  ? " 

His  face  relaxed  its  seriousness  a  little 
as  he  answered,  "  Youth  is  that  uninterest 
ing  stage  in  life  in  which  it  still  seems 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         169 

comparatively  easy  to  find  and  do  one's 
duty." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  demanded,  "that 
duty  gets  harder  and  harder  ?  Don't  we 
ever  accomplish,  ever  achieve  ?  In  the 
moral  life  is  there  no  such  thing  as 
arriving  ? " 

He  smiled  at  her  vehemence,  as  even 
those  who  loved  her  usually  smiled  at 
Arria's  tempestuous  earnestness  about 
abstract  ideas. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  we  never  arrive. 
The  rest  of  our  life  is  spent  in  learning 
over  again  and  again  the  things  we  learn 
before  we  are  twenty-five.  Ethical  les 
sons  are  to  maturity  what  the  multiplica 
tion  table  is  to  the  child.  We  conquer 
them  only  by  dint  of  a  thousand  repeti 
tions.  We  are  continually  losing  what 
we  think  we  have  gained,  and  simply  to 
hold  our  ground  is  a  perpetual  struggle." 


1 70          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

She  shook  her  head,  profoundly  un 
convinced. 

"  You  will  know  that  and  many  other 
things  when  we  next  meet,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  afraid  that  signal  meant  that  I  must 
leave  you  now.  I  hope  you  will  have  a 
pleasant  voyage  and  find  your  work  all 
you  wish  it  to  be.  —  I  spoke  to  the 
deck-steward  about  bringing  out  your 
chair.  You  will  feel  better  to  keep  in 
the  air  as  much  as  possible,  even  during 
a  December  passage.  It  is  not  as  cold 
as  one  would  think,  and  if  you  are  well 
wrapped  up,  you  can  keep  fairly  comfort 
able.  —  Good-by." 

"Thank  you.  I  am  sure  to  be  all 
right.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  see 
me  off.  Good-by." 

As  she  watched  the  resolute,  familiar 
figure  go  down  the  gang-plank,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden  tightening  of  the 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         171 

heart-strings.  He  belonged  to  her  brief 
past,  the  life  which  she  had  rejected. 
The  life  of  her  own  choosing  lay  before 
her,  to  do  with  it  what  she  would. 

As  the  steamer  backed  clumsily  away 
from  the  pier,  swung  out  into  clear  water 
amid  faint  cheers  from  the  dock,  and 
moved  down  the  bay,  she  still  leaned  upon 
the  rail,  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 

She  was  lonely  and  wretched,  yet  not 
afraid.  Existence  seemed  to  lie  just 
before  her,  vast,  inchoate,  and  strange. 
Its  desolateness  appalled  her  and  its  ap 
parent  contradictions  confused,  but  she 
clung  to  her  young  self-confidence.  She 
had  done  well  to  love,  and  well  to  leave 
love  behind.  To  these  beliefs  she  held 
with  passion.  And  for  the  rest,  there 
was  still  work,  and  next  to  love,  work 
was  the  great  enricher. 

If    Arria   had    not    been    her   mother's 


172          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

daughter;  if  her  reversion  to  the  stoical 
training  of  her  childhood  had  been  less 
sincere,  or  her  revulsion  against  her 
temporary  theory  of  self-indulgence  less 
strenuous;  if  love  had  come  a  little  later 
into  her  life,  when  the  fierce  idealism 
with  which  it  is  the  chief  function  of  the 
woman's  college  to  endue  its  daughters, 
had  been  tamed  by  contact  with  reality, 
—  if  any  of  these  things  had  been  other 
wise,  her  story  would  have  been  a  different 
one.  An  older  woman  might  well  have 
thought  her  title  to  happiness  valid,  since 
the  welfare  of  two  legitimately  outweighs 
that  of  one;  a  woman  less  accustomed 
to  the  reflection  that  denial  is  as  rich 
an  experience  as  indulgence,  might  well 
have  shrunk  from  the  pain  involved  in 
renunciation.  But  inexperience  is  the 
most  valuable  ally  of  idealism,  and  the 
girl's  resolution  to  put  aside  the  cup 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         173 

whose  sweetness  she  had  not  begun  to 
know  was  fortified  by  her  ignorance.  So 
she  turned  her  young  face  confidently 
toward  the  Old  World  and  her  new  life, 
and  struggled  to  lift  up  her  heart,  while 
the  steamer  plunged  upon  its  way. 


POSTLUDE 

THE  midsummer  sun  had  gone  down 
behind  the  hills,  leaving  in  the  sky  a 
rosy  glory  that  the  river  caught  and 
made  its  own.  Roderick  Kirke,  pacing 
the  terrace  in  front  of  his  home  and 
smoking  his  after-dinner  cigar,  was  com 
fortably  aware  of  the  charm  of  the  night 
and  of  the  wide  and  beautiful  outlook 
before  his  eyes.  He  was  aware,  too, 
subconsciously,  of  the  fertile  reach  of 
his  ancestral  acres  as  they  swept  back 
toward  the  hills,  and  of  the  placid,  gen 
erous  dignity  of  the  home  of  his  fathers 
where  he  dwelt.  He  was  more  acutely 
conscious  of  the  group  in  front  of  the 
house.  That,  too,  was  his  own  —  his 
mother,  his  wife,  his  child.  The  hour 
174 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         175 

and  the  scene  were  calculated  to  foster 
peace  of  soul  and  the  pride  of  possession 
in  any  man. 

"  Take  her  away,  nurse.  She  is  getting 
sleepy."  Mrs.  Roderick  Kirke  picked  up 
a  minute  but  important  bundle  of  flannel 
and  lace  from  her  mother-in-law's  lap  and 
handed  it  carefully  to  the  functionary 
waiting  to  receive  it.  Then  she  joined 
her  husband  on  the  terrace,  slipped  a 
hand  in  his  arm,  and  began  conversation 
at  once  on  the  subject  nearest  her  heart 
just  then. 

"  Roderick,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  that  child  should  be  christened,  but 
it  is  impossible  unless  we  decide  upon  a 
name.  The  fact  that  your  mother  and 
mine  each  insist  that  she  shall  be  called 
for  the  other,  makes  it  difficult  to  give 
her  either  name.  This  afternoon  I  had 
an  inspiration." 


1 76          The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic 

"Well?" 

"  Let  us  call  her  Arria." 

"  Ah,  —  yes.  After  your  cousin,  of 
course.  It  is  an  unusual  name,"  said  Mr. 
Kirke  thoughtfully. 

"  I  did  not  know  whether  you  would 
like  it  or  not.  You  never  seemed  so 
much  interested  in  Arria  after  she  broke 
her  engagement  with  Mr.  Sefton." 

"You  cannot  have  better  bread  than 
is  made  with  wheat.  Sefton  was  cer 
tainly  devoted  to  her  and  an  excellent 
fellow." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  could  have  made  him 
tremendously  happy.  But  I  suppose  she 
wanted  to  be  happy  herself.  Perhaps 
she  is,  out  there  in  Germany,  digging 
away  at  the  decaying  roots  of  dead  and 
buried  words.  I  had  a  letter  from  her 
to-day.  She  is  collecting  all  the  participial 
constructions  from  —  I  forget  where  — 


The  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         177 

to  prove  —  I  forget  what.  She  says  it  is 
very  thrilling,  and  she  enjoys  it  ex 
tremely.  But  I  wish  she  would  give  it 
up,  and  come  back  to  us!  I  never  con 
sidered  Arria  strong-minded  or  independ 
ent.  You  can't  ask  a  woman  to  marry 
the  wrong  man  in  order  to  demonstrate 
her  attachment  to  the  institution  of  mat 
rimony." 

"  Didn't  Sefton  say  he  was  going 
abroad  this  summer  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  he  will  see  her. 
Arria  is  essentially  just.  I  have  always 
hoped  she  would  see  her  way  some  day 
to  atoning  to  that  man  for  his  shriv 
elled  life.  The  frost  seemed  to  touch  it 
when  she  threw  him  over." 

"  Let  us  hope  she  will.  It  would  be 
a  good  thing  all  around." 

"  I  want  her  to  be  happy,"  said  Flor 
ence,  with  sudden  energy.  "  There  is 

N 


1 78          The  Da^lghter  of  a  Stoic 

something  very  attaching  about  Arria. 
I  loved  her.  And  while  there  are  many 
kinds  of  contentment,  there  is  only  one 
kind  of  happiness  —  namely,  this  kind  ! 
I  want  her  to  know  it." 

Roderick  was  silent,  and  after  an 
instant  his  wife  went  on,  "  I  am  happy, 
so  happy  that  I  pity  you  sometimes  for 
having  a  more  phlegmatic  temperament 
and  taking  life  and  joy  more  calmly. 
When  I  see  the  wretchedness  in  other 
people's  lives,  it  seems  impossible  that 
I  should  be  exempt,  and  I  probe  myself 
to  see  if  I  am  not  miserable  too.  But 
I  never  find  that  I  am." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  What  have  you  and 
misery  to  do  with  one  another?"  said 
Roderick  quickly,  looking  down  at  her 
with  quiet  tenderness. 

"  Nothing  —  so  long  as  you  are  happy! " 

He    stopped,   but    lifted    her    hand    to 


77^6'  Daughter  of  a  Stoic         179 

his  lips.  To  his  own  bewilderment  it 
was  true  that  he  was  happy.  At  least, 
life  was  not  ecstasy,  perhaps,  as  he  had 
once  dreamed  it  might  be.  Sometimes 
the  world  seemed  stupid  and  nothing 
was  worth  while ;  but  such  moods  were 
universal,  and  quite  as  likely  to  .  attack 
men  who  had  never  suffered  reverse  in 
matters  of  the  heart,  as  those  who  had. 
On  the  whole,  he  had  small  complaint 
against  destiny.  In  all  ways  the  world 
was  going  well  with  him.  The  subtle 
irony  of  the  smile  with  which  he  an 
swered  her  at  last  was  directed  not 
against  himself,  but  against  existence. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  the 
affections  are  the  great  source  of  human 
happiness.  But  have  you  never  thought 
also  that,  in  view  of  all  the  facts  of  life, 
the  mutability  of  human  affection  is  its 
happiest  quality?  " 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ALTRUISM. 


BY 


MARGARET    SHERWOOD. 


i6mo.    Cloth.    75  cents. 


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ture  ought  not  to  leave  unread."  —  J^he  Beacon. 

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—  The  Book  Buyer. 

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TRYPHENA  IN   LOVE, 

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Illustrated  by  J.  WALTER  WEST.     i6mo.     Cloth.    75  cents. 

"  Fresh  and  quaint  and  wholesome  as  the  scent  of  the  homely 
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—  The  Outlook. 

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"  A  veritable  treasure."  —  Munsey's  Magazine. 

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an  apple  reddened  on  the  sunny  side  o'  the  wall,  as  simply  loyal 
and  tender  as  a  right  old  ballad  song."  —  Boston  Iranscript. 


A  LOST  ENDEAVOUR. 

By  GUY  BOOTHBY, 

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est."  —  Kansas  City  Times. 

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est  which  might  easily  be  maintained  through  as  many  pages 
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tions,  will  make  a  variety  of  confections.  The  ingredients  of 
this  novel  are  by  no  means  new,  but  they  are  well  mixed,  and 
the  result  is  a  readable  book."  —  New  York  Observer. 

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story  very  pleasing."  — Minneapolis  Tribune. 

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THE    IRIS    SERIES    OF    ILLUSTRATED    NOVELS. 

A   RINGBY   LASS, 

And  Other  Stories. 

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"  A  daintily  choice  collection,  forming  an  exquisite  literary 
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pathos  which  win  the  heart  of  the  reader."  —  N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  Not  only  clear  and   bright,  but   also   displays   a   perfectly 
healthy  and  happy  temperament." —  The  Churchman. 

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• —  Buffalo  Express. 

"  Particularly  pleasing,  ...  is  full  of  charm  and  freshness." 

—  St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 


WHERE  HIGHWAYS  CROSS. 

By  J.  S.  FLETCHER, 

Author  of  "When  Charles  the  First  was  King." 
With  illustrations.     i6mo.    Cloth.    75  cents. 

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story."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  Abounds   with   vivid    descriptions  of  events   and   persons. 
The  sentiment  of  the  book  is  wholesome." —  Christian  Register. 

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LIVES  THAT  CAME  TO  NOTHING, 

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With  Illustrations  by  IDA  LOVERINQ.    i6mo.    Cloth.    75  cents. 

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and  musical  culture  and  human  feeling."  —  Boston  Globe. 


CHRISTIAN   AND   LEAH, 

and  Other  Ghetto  Stories. 
By  LEOPOLD    KOMPERT. 

TRANSLATED  BY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ALFRED  S.   ARNOLD.  F.   HAMILTON  JACKSON. 

Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 

"  This  book  contains  those  Jewish  stories,  which  are  extremely 
simple,  but  full  of  the  eloquence  of  truth  and  nature." 

—  Ne~M  York  Observer. 

"  The  portrayal  of  Jewish  life  in  these  stories  is  wonderfully 
fine  in  detail  and  vivid  in  colouring,  and  not  only  in  the  de 
lineation  of  character,  but  in  the  expression  of  the  higher 
ethical  motives,  does  this  book  make  its  appeal  to  the  sym 
pathetic  mind."  —  The  Beacon. 

"The  three  tales  form  an  exceptionally  fine  opinion  of  the 
Ghetto  realm  of  fiction,  which  has  come  into  such  wide  favour 
of  late."  —  Boston  Courier. 


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MAD  SIR  UCHTRED  OF  THE  HILLS, 

By  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 

Author  of  "The  Raiders,"  "The  Stickit  Minister,"  etc.,  etc. 
i6mo.    Buckram.    $1.25. 


"  Mr.  Crockett  is  surely  the  poet-laureate  of  Galloway.  The 
scene  of  his  tale  ('  Mad  Sir  Uchtred ')  is  laid  among  the  hills 
with  which  we  became  familiar  in  '  The  Raiders.'  The  Lady 
of  Garthland  makes  a  gracious  and  pathetic  figure,  and  the  wild 
and  terrible  Uchtred,  the  wrong  done  him,  the  vengeance  which 
he  did  not  take,  —  all  these  things  are  narrated  in  a  style  of 
exquisite  clearness  and  beauty.  Mr.  Crockett  need  not  fear 
comparison  with  any  of  the  young  Scotsmen  who  are  giving  to 
English  literature  just  now  so  much  that  is  fresh,  and  whole 
some,  and  powerful."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"The  sort  of  romance  that  lifts  the  reader  up  into  a  purer 
and  nobler  world."  —  Evangelist. 

"  It  is  a  picture  of  those  lawless  days  when  life  was  held 
of  but  little  account,  and  there  is  also  a  great  charm  in  the  style 
of  the  narrative."  —  Boston  Times. 

"  The  tale  is  forcibly  told,  and  has  humour  as  well  as  tragedy 
in  its  make-up.  Those  who  love  good  literature  should  not 
fail  to  read  this  grewsome  history.  It  is  brief,  but  in  its  way  a 
masterpiece."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


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THE  SILVER  CHRIST  and 
A  LEMON  TREE. 

By  QUID  A. 

Author  of  "  Under  Two  Flags,"  "  Two  Little  Wooden 
Shoes,"  etc.,  etc. 

i6mo.    Buckram.     $1.25. 


"  Two  charming  stories  by  '  Ouida '  are  included  in  a  dainty 
little  volume  ('  The  Silver  Christ ';  '  A  Lemon  Tree ').  Compara 
tively  few  persons  —  so  at  least  it  seems  to  us  —  appreciate  this 
writer  at  her  true  value.  We  have  not  the  highest  opinion  of 
much  of  her  work;  it  is  meretricious,  and  even  vulgar.  But  at 
her  best  she  is  capable  of  truly  exquisite  writing,  and  it  is  in 
shorter  tales,  dealing  with  an  episode,  —  brief  studies  of  charac 
ter, —  that  she  is  at  her  best."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  It  is  a  perfect  love  story,  a  melody  couched  in  a  minor  key. 
Both  stories  show  exceeding  power  and  directness.  The  literary 
art  is  there." — Neiv  York  Times. 

"Of  such  simple  elements,  under  the  touch  of  an  artist,  is 
painted  a  wonderfully  vivid,  pathetic  little  picture  of  life." 

—  Illustrated  Buffalo  Express. 

"It  is  pathetic,  simple,  and  beautifully  told,  and  those  who 
have  classed  Ouida  among  the  forbidden  fruits  of  literature, 
should  read  it  to  understand  what  an  artist  with  the  pen  she 
is."  —  Boston  Times. 


MACMILLAN    &   CO., 

66    FIFTH    AVENUE,    NEW   YORK. 


Ill'11     II      "     •• 

A     000  056  006     0 


